Potions, Plans, and Second Chances
by K M Marie
Summary: IN PROGRESS - It's been 6 years since Voldemort's defeat, and life for Hermione Granger has fallen into boring routine. Until one morning, a man she believed to have died the morning of the Dark Lord's downfall is admitted to St. Mungo's under her care.
1. Chapter 1

Rating: M – inappropriate for readers under the age of 16; contains scenes of explicit sexuality and violence.  
>Disclaimer: Characters and settings ©J.K. Rowling.<p>

Author's Note: This is an idea that I've been tossing about for ages. It observes everything that has happened in the entire series of Harry Potter, up until the final chapter, but it excludes the epilogue. I don't know for certain if I will actually take it anywhere, but I had to get it out of me and into written words, or else I would explode! Please note that all the content codes listed in the summary will be relevant if I do in fact continue this story, but only then.

**Potions, Plans, and Second Chances**

K. Marie

**Chapter 1**

Hermione Jean Granger had approached her work after Hogwarts much like she did anything else: with a great deal of perseverance, dedication, and with just a touch of pure stubbornness. It was for those traits that the Sorting Hat ultimately decided placing her in Gryffindor rather than Ravenclaw, and those very characteristics were what continued to pull her through the Second Wizarding War in one piece.

The same could not be said for her beau, and Ronald Bilius Weasley struggled immensely after the fall of Voldemort. He had been committed to St. Mungo's twice for (as his brother George so warmly referred to it) "lapses in sanity," and while the twin brother was worse for wear since the loss of his confidante, best friend, and business partner, he did seem better off than his youngest brother.

Regardless of which label one desired to tack on Ron's condition, Hermione remained loyally by his side throughout it all. Granted, finishing university would have been much easier had she not spent half her waking hours at his bedside, tending to his needs, but ultimately she felt it did contribute some to her success after graduation; she had become familiar with the staff at St. Mungo's, and after receiving her licensure as a Healer, she was given a high position among the ranks nearly immediately.

And good thing for it, too. With Ron's bouts with depression and sleeplessness, the once-cheerful, albeit rather dim Weasley struggled to maintain work. Hermione's was the only steady stream of income they saw. After about three years following the fall of Voldemort, George offered Ron a job at his joke shop, offering a great deal of leniency concerning his younger brother's emotional distress. It seemed, in fact, that Ron was taking the losses garnered from the war the hardest, even though he himself had emerged with the majority of his relationships fully intact.

Hermione and Ron were leasing an apartment in the city, within walking distance from the hospital, though that didn't matter, really. Transportation was never an issue when one was trained in Apparition, but Hermione did enjoy the leisurely walk to the hospital on the warmer days of the year.

Harry, no worse for wear and having seen many a horrible thing in his life already, emerged from the war relatively unscathed. He was working for the Ministry as an Auror, while Ginny continued her studies at university. They had purchased a home not far from the Burrow and were living a life of leisure, Harry finally enjoying what it was to lead a relatively normal lifestyle, though secretly he complained to Hermione that sometimes it was simply boring.

Working in what a Muggle would equate to an emergency room, Hermione saw her fair share of brutality. While Voldemort himself had fallen six years previous, that by no means suggested the world was rid of dark magic. And in fact, one would be foolish to believe such, but Hermione was reminded of the grim reality every day. She had mended many wounds, set many a broken bone; all minor injuries in compared to some of the more extreme, merciless cases.

The Death Eaters – though of course they no longer congregated under that label – were still rampant. Their Lord had fallen once and resurrected; was it so unlikely it could happen again? The few that survived the war that also escaped incarceration were still wheedling their way through the world, just out of view of the Ministry. And they struck with a certain vengeance.

It was not often that it happened, but there were instances where mysteriously, the gruesome, decaying remains of a missing person were discovered. The attacks were truly bloodthirsty; they made no use of the traditional curses that were named justly so. These attacks were driven by madness, by a bloodlust comparable to Voldemort himself. The victims were beaten and tortured, presumably for information but in other cases, the reason was based purely out of prejudice. The bodies of Muggleborns and "blood traitors" were maimed nearly beyond recognition, while those that may have had information on the Dark Lord were simply stabbed and beaten until they either lost consciousness or passed on.

Those former Death Eaters who were committing the heinous crimes moved quickly and there were no traces to lead to their capture. Aurors – Harry included – had been combing the hills for months following an attack to turn up with nothing. Then another attack – and there was never any justice, never any closure for the families of the victims.

As Hermione pushed open the door to her apartment building, she stifled a yawn. She was glad to report that the day was indeed rather slow, nothing more than broken bones to mend. She heard the televisions growling through the walls of her neighbors, and as she climbed the stairs to her own apartment, she could hear a similar sound creeping out from under the door.

As she entered her home, she spotted Ron on the couch. His eyes were heavy-lidded with fatigue and he turned to face her. Quickly he rose, coming to her side and kissing her gently. Pulling out of his embrace she set her bag down beside her desk and lowered herself into the chair.

"How was your day, Ron?" she asked, her eyes passing between him and the Muggle news network he had been watching.

"Fine," he replied, lowering himself to the couch once more. As she studied his features, she noticed the roughness along his chin and cheeks that suggested a face that needed shaving. "Not much to report from this end, you know that."

Indeed she did, and while the conversation was really just arbitrary prattle, she liked to at least try to fool herself into believing she wanted to maintain the relationship. It was true, she was growing quite weary of Ron's exhaustive flip-flop of mood states, and moreover she simply sought more engaging conversation. But she couldn't bring herself to abandon him. Not when he needed someone like he needed her.

Often times she cursed herself for allowing him ever to visit her parents in their home. It was those visits that inspired his purchase of a television, in front of which it seemed she found him each evening.

When it became clear that he wasn't going to query about her day, she rose from her desk chair and moved into the bedroom. She had resigned herself months ago that their intimacy had dwindled to the seemingly obligatory greeting kiss, and there it would remain indefinitely.

She disrobed, allowing her clothes to fall to her feet before moving to her dresser and pulling on some sleeping clothes. Climbing under the heavy covers of the bed, she allowed sleep to overwhelm her, and she succumbed to her world of dreams.

* * *

><p>"Good morning, Ms. Granger," from behind the tall marble desk, a blonde woman with piercing green eyes greeted Hermione happily.<p>

Hermione smiled in return, passing through the entrance hall of the hospital to the corridor that would lead to the emergency center. As she pushed open the doors, she entered a sterile environment of overbearing white, busy bodies, and frustrated voices. One of the mediwizards crossed paths with Hermione as he was hurrying to another room, and he greeted her with a frantic hello before disappearing through the doorway.

Approaching the counter, she paused only briefly to talk with the woman seated there. The woman informed Hermione that Marcus MacLean had just asked after her, and that he needed her assistance immediately. Hermione nodded, thanking the young witch, and proceeded in the direction she had been pointed.

As Hermione eased her way through the groups of healers, nurses, and the occasional medi-apprentice, she caught faint whispers of the conversation she had been instructed to join. Three men, all clad in traditional mediwizard garb, gathered together in a tight circle, their heads tipped forward as if trying to ensure that their discussion would not escape the confines of their bodies.

"We have no history for him…"

"He won't speak; he won't say a word to us."

"We've scoured missing persons, there's nothing on file…"

"He may as well be dead!"

Hermione indelicately cleared her throat from behind the men, receiving a startled reaction from one of them. The oldest of the men – or so she assumed; starting at his temple, a crown of silver hair feathered the roots of his otherwise dark hair – nodded to her in acknowledgement. The younger two, neither showing a hint of graying of their hair nor wrinkle in their face, turned their attention from Marcus to Hermione.

"This way, Ms. Granger," he said, touching his hand to the small of her back to lead her into the private room outside which they were conversing.

As they entered the room, the patient she had been beckoned to examine was hidden behind a sterile green curtain. From the end of the bed she noticed the dark red staining of the white sheets, a subtle tremor of the feet of the bed's inhabitant sending a resultant shudder along the length of the fabric.

Hermione gently closed the door behind her, her eyes never leaving that tremulous limb. As she came to stand beside the wizard once more, she finally looked up to him, the deep creases in his face betraying his otherwise calm disposition.

"Let me see his chart," Hermione began slowly, her amber eyes flickering back to the foot of the bed.

Without any motion from either of them, the document lifted from its place at the end of the bed frame and levitated to her hand. It was so barren, so destitute; it may have well been an empty folder as she stared at its cover. As she looked to the identification sticker, a slight wrinkle pressed into her forehead as she furrowed her brow.

Name: Unknown  
>PID: 6-5325-023-10<br>MR: 987-098-4321-01  
>DOB: Unknown<br>Age: Unknown  
>Sex: Male<p>

She flicked open the cover of the dismally indigent folder and inside, a single yellow sheet of paper glared up at her, almost mockingly. Gleaning from it what little information it offered, she gently closed the folder once more. Tucking it under her arm, she reached out for the privacy curtain. The wizard beside her touched her arm gently and before she pulled open the curtain, she turned to him.

"What is it, Marcus?" she said, her voice quiet.

He tugged at her, pulling her away from the curtain. With their backs facing the patient's bed, he tipped his head towards her, his voice a mere whisper, barely audible, as he spoke.

"This is an attack unlike any that we've seen before, Hermione. It's remarkable he is still alive. He's been drifting in and out of consciousness since he arrived several hours ago, and whenever he's been awake we've been trying to ascertain his identity. There is, surprisingly, no trauma to his larynx – so we have no idea why he isn't speaking," Marcus replied, his pale green eyes flickering from her face to the foot of the bed. "I've forbidden the nurses from cleaning him until you have performed a full examination."

"Haven't you already assessed his condition?" she replied sharply, as though both irritated and horrified he would have neglected such a prudent portion of his responsibility as a Healer.

"Of course, I have," he replied, quiet still.

She didn't allow him to finish, simply offered a 'tut' in disapproval. Turning towards the patient's bed once more, she gently pulled back the curtain, moving towards the patient slowly. She hadn't noticed it before, but as she moved closer, her senses were momentarily overwhelmed by the scent of human blood – though she was not surprised, considering how crimson his sheets were. There was also the pungent odor of filthy skin and dirt.

His dark hair was matted and tangled with blood and dirt, and as Hermione drew closer she noticed tiny twigs snarled amidst the mess as well. His face was gaunt, pallid from blood loss; his prominent cheekbones bore ugly gashes that were crusted with dried blood and mud. Around his eyes there was dark bruising, several small cuts that crusted brown. His nose, which upon primary glance appeared too large for his sallow face, was quite obviously broken, blood crusted around his long nostrils and vicious bruising lining the bridge. There was ugly bruising along his jaw, his lip split and caked with blood.

She reached for the bedside table and donned a pair of gloves. Something seemed so familiar about this man, and yet, as hard as she wracked her memory, she could not recall why she would recognize him. Gently, she manipulated his lips to examine his mouth; his slightly yellowed, slightly crooked teeth were bordered along his gums with blood and dirt. Touching his mouth had aggravated the gash in his lip, and it began bleeding again. She reached for a clean cloth and pressed it against his mouth carefully, stanching the bleed.

Her amber eyes scanned the rest of his body. He was mostly covered by the sheet and she knew to get a better idea of what sort of trauma he endured, she'd have to draw the curtain around them. Lifting the cloth from his lip, she checked the open wound; it was only oozing blood now, very scant amounts, and she placed the cloth in the basin by the bed and proceeded to draw the curtain.

"How was he discovered, Marcus?" Hermione asked quietly through the curtain as she began to examine the rest of the patient's battered body. All injuries she could tend to in a moment, as the Blood-Replenishing Potions Marcus had administered had all but replaced the blood loss.

"He was stumbled upon by some children in an open field about fifteen kilometers south of the Chelmsford," the Healer replied. "The injuries were too severe – with weapon and cause unidentifiable by Muggle means, anyway – to treat at the local hospital. After a brief consultation with the Prime Minister, he was transported here."

"What does the Prime Minister have to do with the affairs of a local hospital?" Hermione asked curiously, her delicate hands turning over the left arm of the John Smith in the bed. He had several deep lacerations lacing the flesh of his arm, all of which oozed minute traces of blood. As her eyes scanned the skin carefully, and through the dried blood and dirt, she spied an interesting scar pattern on his forearm; she noted to view it closer after she had cleaned him. The sheet beneath his arm was damp with blood and sweat, and she set his arm back down.

"It was a curious case, as you can imagine," Marcus replied from behind the curtain. "He had only been there twenty minutes before they declared it an unusual circumstance. One of the doctors there is the father of a Muggleborn wizard, you see."

Hermione bent over the bed, carefully studying the patient's neck. Something peculiar had caught her eye, and as she drew closer, she noticed the unique scarring there. Two circular blemishes, about as wide apart as her closed fist, one of which would have perfectly punctured the man's jugular. Briefly, she recalled witnessing that abominable serpent stretching towards Severus Snape, her long, venomous fangs piercing his throat, and the blood that pooled beneath him as he collapsed…

She breathed in deeply, forcing the unpleasant memory from her mind. This was no time for recollection, and she knew she had suffered many a night with the horrible dreams of the man's violent, tragic death. She had witnessed the deaths of many people now, and though it never grew easier for her, she had found herself growing more callused as the days passed. Resuming her examination, she pulled open the modesty ribbon of his patient robes, folding them down towards his feet to reveal his chest to her.

His chest was disturbingly purple with bruising, as though he had been subject to a severe beating – though, given the state of the rest of him, Hermione figured it did not seem so preposterous after all. He had several deep gashes along the flesh of his breast, dried blood crusting at the edges. His abdomen, barely concealing the hint of lean muscle beneath the pale skin, was also mutilated in a similar way, deep lacerations mingling among the dark bruising.

"And we have no idea what happened to him?" she asked, her examination taking her to the other side of the bed, where she tenderly lifted his arm, inspecting it for damage. She was not disappointed; this limb bore similar abuse as his other, the thin fabric of the mattress beneath him stained red with his blood. Gingerly, she turned his hand over, carefully inspecting the long fingers and callused pads of his palm. His nails were caked with dirt, his fingers rough from years of use. She returned the gown to his chest, tying it loosely around his neck.

"Conjecture," he replied softly.

"Very well. Thank you, Marcus. You can leave," she replied simply, her eyes never ceasing in their constant, diligent examination.

Tucking the blanket back to reveal one of his legs to her, Hermione began carefully manipulating the limb to allow her better visualization of the wounds that decorated it. There was a deep gash along his thigh that just barely missed his femoral artery. She continued down the long limb, finally reaching his toes; his feet seemed to be the only unscarred portion of his entire body. She covered the limb, and moved around to the other side to continue her examination.

As she reached to finally uncover his genitals, leaving the most immodest portion of her examination for last, she cried out in shock when a strong hand came to grasp her wrist. He had come to support himself, albeit very gingerly and with great effort, on his elbow. He grimaced in pain at his own sudden movements, his pale, withered chest heaving for air. Looking up at the face of her patient, her lips parted in a quick apology, but he shook his head slowly.

"But I need to ensure—" He was not the one to interrupt her, however; as she stared at his face, his dark eyes boring into her own, the strength of her voice abandoned her. The last word on her lips was a mere squeak as she breathed it, and she thought for certain, her eyes were betraying her.

Those eyes; those eternally fathomless, cold, black eyes – she recognized that penetrating gaze as though she had just served detention with its owner the evening last. Her eyes broke his stare, flickering to the scarring on his throat, and the peculiar mark, tarnished with filth and blood as it was, on his left forearm.

Finally, he released her wrist and lowered himself to the pillow once more, a small groan escaping him. She turned to the foot of the bed, retrieving the chart once more. Desperately, she searched its solitary page for any information that would prove her wrong; she knew she had to be mistaken. She had witnessed the man exsanguinate in the Shrieking Shack, his fingers unable to stanch the wound. Six years later, she still woke in a cold sweat to the sound of his scream as Nagini sunk her fangs into his throat. The rattle of his last shallow breath; the sound of his hand falling to the floor in a quiet thud.

It wasn't possible! Her eyes were shiny now, her hands trembling as she held the empty chart in her hands. It offered her no more information than what she had gathered on her thorough examination. As she set the file back in its holder, she looked up at the John Smith in the bed before her; the patient whom she still wished to believe was unidentified. He had pulled the sheets to his chest in a simple gesture of modesty, his pallid face bearing a grimace that she had only ever seen once before.

Recognizing his pained expression, she turned to the medicine cart by his bed. Brandishing the key from her pocket, she opened it, offering him a dose of the best analgesic potion he had prescribed to him. He swallowed it, his dark eyes never leaving her face as she lifted the small goblet to his lips, and she held his gaze just as levelly.

She set the goblet on the table beside his bed, her amber eyes wide with shock. She searched his face for some distinguishing characteristic, anything at all. She was absolutely mental, she had to be – he was dead. Long since dead. Did he have family? Perhaps this was his twin. Her gaze flickered to his throat once more and then back to his face; his glittering black eyes held some emotion there, something she didn't recognize – that must be the difference! The man she thought to be dead never displayed any emotion. It couldn't be him!

Breathing deeply, she forced herself to remain professional, distancing herself from her thoughts. Regardless of his unknown identity (or her suspicions), he was very ill indeed. The fact he was even conscious for her then was a miracle in and of itself, but the administration of blood-replenishing potions no doubt assisted in that. Finally, she turned towards the basin on the side of his bed. Normally, the nurses would handle the task of cleaning a patient, but Hermione couldn't bring herself to allow another individual to be so intimate with the man. She couldn't explain why she immediately felt so protective of him, but he seemed to appreciate it regardless; as she filled the basin with comfortably hot water, she smiled at him, and she thought she caught the brief tug of the corner of his mouth that may have been a smile.

Hermione was unique in her bedside manner in that, when she could help it, she personally saw to the traditional care of her patients. Magic had its merits in so many ways, but she believed strongly in the strength of the gentle hand in caring for the sick. She held steadfast in her belief, despite the mockery of her fellow Healers; but at the very least, her patients appreciated her efforts. Where she could use her own tender hand to care for her patient, she would abandon the use of magic, and in cleaning a patient's wounds (especially when she had time or was particularly interested in forming a strong bond with her patient), she tucked her wand away. It allowed for a certain level of intimacy between Healer and patient, something magic simply could not grant; while she cleaned her patients, they would talk to her, telling her all about their lives. And from there, the foundation of trust could be built.

Wetting the cloth, she gently began wiping him clean. She started with his face, tenderly moving the warm cloth over his wounds, cleaning away the dried blood. His dark eyes simply watched her face the entire time, though he did occasionally grimace when she rubbed against a particularly painful gash. The bruising around his eyes and nose seemed exaggerated now that his face was clean, white like porcelain as the skin was, his left eye swelling rapidly with each passing minute.

He lifted his head to expose his throat to her and she delicately smoothed the cloth over the flesh. The cloth dragged over the stubble of his unshaven jaw, rough with the growth of a beard. She noticed a faint line of pink skin just above the prominence of his Adam's apple, as though a knife had been pressed there. Hermione frowned; what happened to this man? With his throat cleaned now, the scarring that had been so disturbing to her before was much more evident, and she felt her heart race.

As she moved down his body, she tenderly cleaned the open wounds and applied a coagulation paste to those that seemed determined to bleed. He was hesitant to allow her to handle his left arm, and for a moment, she challenged him with a firm stare. He resigned to her, and as she gently cleaned the soil and crusted blood from the flesh, the scarring there glared at her as though it was active. Though now it was just a silvery scar, the distinctive serpent protruding from the mouth of a skull sent a shiver down Hermione's spine. She knew now why he was so hesitant to allow her to clean his limb, and she looked at him with a certain amount of sympathy in the amber pools of her eyes.

Doing her best to remain professional even as the truths she thought she knew crumbled, she tore her attention from the significant scar. There were areas of his body that seemed particular sensitive for him, and as she moved over them, she noted them mentally for further examination. Given the bruising of his body, she would not be surprised if he had suffered some broken bones. All along his form there were scars of varying ages, some implying more savage wounds than others. Forty-five minutes later she had finally finished, and as she wringed the cloth over the basin, the water inside swimming with pink and gobs of crusty blood, she turned to him once more.

"I was asked to do a consultation," she began quietly, sitting in the chair beside his bed. With her wand out, she pointed at the bed, and slowly the head began to rise until he was more upright. His expression never changed, so she assumed he was content with the change in position. "I am the best Healer this hospital has to offer. Your injuries are severe, as I'm sure you can imagine. The others – they don't trust their ability to heal you properly."

His dark gaze was fixed on her face, flickering over her features. Despite her calm disposition, her heart was racing beneath her breast. Her astonishment that he was laying in the hospital bed before her had not yet passed, and with every second that ticked away, she became more certain of his identity.

"My colleagues tell me you haven't spoken a word since you arrived here," she continued, standing only to reach for his chart. "You are listed as a number, and that's all. We have no information on your identity, no history." She flashed the patient tag in front of him, her finger gesturing to the identification number.

His expression did not change, but as she studied his face, her eyes almost hungrily searching his features for something that would discern this man from whom she believed him to be, she noticed the deep lines around his eyes and at his mouth, the crevices creasing his forehead despite his relaxed brow. He looked so much older now than she remembered.

Lowering back into the chair, she opened his file in her lap. The single yellow page glared at her, and she turned it over as though hoping for something more yielding of information, but it held nothing significant she didn't already know. Her hands were trembling, and as the lightweight folder in her hands began to betray her, quietly rustling in her tremulous grasp, she closed it roughly and set it on the edge of the bed.

She found herself reverting to the teenage girl he had humiliated so often in her youth. Her heart seemed to have no intention on slowing, and the longer her apprehension persisted, the more concerned she grew that the muscle may cease functioning. As her eyes scanned his face, the familiar features that were only a memory barely two hours before, she felt her resolve falter. The strength in her voice failed her as she looked at him. "You're more than just a number, though," she said, her voice cracking. "If you are who I think you are… you're a hero."

Finally, his eyes left her face and he turned to stare at the ceiling. The mess of his hair was too daunting for her to tackle by hand, and with her wand, she whispered a spell, and it lay flat and smooth around his head. As she removed the twigs that lingered behind, its length was her last confirmation; from what she could tell, it hung to his shoulders, shining and black just as she remembered it.

"Where have you been?" she whispered. "I… I watched you die."

The corners of his mouth pulled in a smirk, and she could have sworn his grunt was a disguised chuckle. Slowly, he shook his head, as though silently refuting her claim. He made no gesture to speak, however, and his gaze lingered on the ceiling.

Rising to her feet, she held her wand at his face, and his dark eyes widened briefly before a loud crack resonated in the room, and his face twisted into an agonized grimace. Blood began gushing from his newly set nose, and she quickly brought a cloth to it. He tipped his head back, and she pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, holding the cloth to his nostrils with the other.

"Hold this here," she said softly, and he brought his hand to the cloth.

Picking her wand up from his bed, she held it levelly with his nose once more. "_Confuto__epistaxi_." With a soft whooshing sound, the bleeding from his nose ceased, and he pulled the cloth away.

She began tending to the remainder of his wounds, the coagulation potion having had time to stop the bleeding. Her quiet whispers and quick wristwork with her wand expedited the healing process of his body. The smaller wounds would heal rapidly, only requiring a few minutes to seal the delicate flesh. There were several other deeper lacerations though that would require a combination of treatments, and she turned to the medicine cabinet.

She withdrew the tincture she required, conjuring a dropper from the air. Leaning over the lacerations she knew magic alone could not heal, she applied the potion to the wounded flesh. As the solution permeated the gashes, the flesh began to smoke as though she were burning it, the solution foaming at first contact. Her patient tensed violently against the sudden burst of pain, a loud groan escaping his lips and in the silence to follow, she could hear the obnoxious and unpleasant grind of his teeth as he suppressed his cries. She hurried the application, knowing from stories past that the particular potion in use felt very much like slicing healthy flesh with a searing hot blade. As he writhed in the bed beneath her, she grimaced in sympathy.

As she finished her task of applying the potion, his body finally relaxed. Leaning over him, she began to recite the incantation that would begin the healing process of the wounds she treated. His hands flexed around the edge of the mattress, and while Hermione noticed his white-knuckle grasp, she did not address it. Over each wound she repeated the spell with a hushed voice, and the entire process required a great deal of her time. Nearly thirty minutes later, she had tended to each wound, and while they still gaped, there was a soft yellow glow about them that indicated her magic was working.

While her movements were adept, they were not accompanied by commentary and her silence left her patient wondering what she would do next. Honestly, she was amazed that neither of his arms was broken, though by the way he catered to his right side, she suspected he suffered at least one broken rib. But given the bruising of his chest, she doubted it was the only one.

With her wand raised, his skin began to glow a dark purple, not unlike a very severe bruise (which left him wondering how she could discern one from the other), over the bones that suffered injury. The discoloration remained and as she held her wand levelly at each location, a quiet snap was heard, a wave of excruciating pain passed over him, and the bone was set.

Once she finished with her wand, she tucked it into her Healer robes and turned to her patient once more. As she looked at him, almost pensively, she came to a silent decision. "This is going to be very unpleasant, but it must be done to ensure the proper treatment of any internal trauma."

He nodded slowly. She lowered herself into the chair slowly, studying his features. With a face as distinct as Professor Severus Snape's, there truly was no mistaking him for someone else; nor was it common to mistake another person as Severus Snape. She had no doubt as she examined his face that she was sitting across from that very man, and her shock at such a discovery both churned her stomach in great unease and caused her heart to beat so rapidly she thought the organ may explode.

Knowing her responsibility as a Healer predominated over any personal needs she may have, she rose from the chair once more. She rummaged through the medicine cabinet, removing the solution she sought. Examining the darkly colored solution within, she shook the vial, sloshing the liquid against the glass.

Moving over to the bed, she held the vial to the lips of the man whom she had believed to be dead for six years, and cradling his head in her hand, she helped him swallow the solution. He grimaced as the sticky, distasteful potion slithered down his throat, and she set the vial beside his bed.

Breathing an anxious sigh, she raised her hands in the air, one brandishing her wand, the other laying flat as though against some invisible surface, and she began quietly reciting an incantation. A wave of agonizing pain rushed over his body as though he was erupting from the inside, and he released a horrifying groan.

As she lowered her hands closer to his body, her voice continued to sing the soft incantation, and he was overcome with a feeling of warmth; it was not so unlike the feeling as blood returned to the empty veins, and the icy hand of death relinquished its grasp.

He hadn't realized it, but as his body was bathed in the blissful feeling of warmth, he had arched from the bed as though achieving the most pleasurable climax he had ever experienced – and with his flesh flushing with the rush of blood to all – all – parts of his body, he certainly appeared that way as well. As she lowered into the chair, his back slowly came in contact with the sheets below him, and his mind rapidly returned to the present.

For a brief second, he felt a fleeting feeling of humility, having enacted a very private act in the presence of the young woman tending to him. He gathered the covers to his groin to conceal the increase blood flow to that portion of his body. And then it occurred to him, she had just carefully bathed him and healed his wounds, and while he knew while it was only in the realm of her responsibilities as a Healer, the familiar face and concerned disposition was comforting to him. As her warm eyes studied him, not once acknowledging the reaction he found awkward to her spell, he shook his head as though literally shaking it of the thoughts that lingered there.

Hermione's concern rose as she became aware of the extent of his internal injuries. He would not appreciate the news that he would be laid up in the infirmary for a month or more, though were he to protest, she would have no problem locking him away in isolation. Cynically, she wondered if it would make any difference to him – though he neither confirmed nor denied her suspicion, she highly doubted he would receive any visitors anyway; nobody believed the man to be alive in the first place. At least, nobody who wished him to remain that way, as judging by the brutality of the attack that garnered him a trip to the hospital.

Turning to the medicine cabinet, she began searching for the remedy that would begin the healing process of his insides. She had yet to brew several complicated potions – specifically one tending to the damaged tissue of his heart, which currently was the most critical of tasks. The fragments of rib that had broken away when the bone was fractured embedded themselves in the various organs which they were intended to protect, and even though she was able to set the bone, she could not remove the shards without risking further injury.

Instead, she turned to him with the potion that would begin to dissolve such shards. In a day's time she would be able to address the wounded organs themselves, but for now, she simply cradled his head as he drank from the goblet.

"It's really quite amazing you survived this long with these injuries," she said, her voice calm. "Had you not received proper treatment in time—" she paused, reconsidering her sentence. "It is fortunate you arrived here when you did."

Setting the goblet down on the table, her eyes searched his face. In the few hours she had been in the room with him, he had not spoken a single syllable, neither confirming nor denying her suspicion of his identity nor providing any additional information that may expedite his healing. She wasn't even sure the hospital would still have the record of Severus Snape, the entire world having believed he was dead and gone for six years now, and no children whom would benefit from his health history.

He wasn't looking at her now, his face tipped up towards the ceiling. She lowered herself into the chair beside his bed, her hands grasping tightly at the arms.

"Why do you refuse to speak?" she asked him bluntly, pulling her chair closer to his bedside. "I know there is nothing wrong with your vocal chords. They may be the only thing, but they are fine."

His lips tugged at the corner once more, and his dark eyes scanned her features. She was much prettier now than he remembered six years ago when he last laid eyes on her. Perhaps it was that she was older now, and he didn't view her any longer as a student. Even in her age – she must be twenty-four now – faint freckles decorated the bridge of her nose. He leaned his head back into the cushion of the pillow, simply watching her.

"Can you at least confirm my suspicions?" she pleaded, leaning on his bed. "You – you don't understand. I watched you die. I saw the pool of blood, your last breath. You stopped breathing."

His eyes left her face and she knew in that moment he had no intention on speaking with her then. His gaze was fixed on the window across from her, and without saying a word, she knew he had just requested she leave. Standing slowly, indignant at his dismissal but knowing there was nothing she could do for it, she began to lead towards the door.

Pulling back the privacy curtain, Hermione paused before she disappeared behind it and through the door. He turned his head towards her, his arched eyebrow betraying his otherwise emotionless face.

"If you prefer, to… limit your exposure to those who may recognize you," she began softly, her eyes lowering from his face to the floor, and then back again. "I may be able to have you moved to an isolation wing, and restrict visitors and mediwizards."

He seemed to nod curtly to this suggestion, and she breathed a small sigh. "I can see if Marcus is willing to work with you. No?" He had shaken his head just slightly to this suggestion, and she furrowed her brow. "Just me, then? I'll see what I can do, but my services are in very high demand. I won't be available at all hours, but I can certainly be the one to provide your treatment." He seemed to relax at this, and for some reason, it filled her with a certain sense of pride. "Very well, then. I will speak with you very soon."

While he may not have confirmed her suspicions with his agreement to her suggestion, he certainly offered her more convincing evidence that she was correct. As she turned to leave his room, one last thing came to her mind, and she turned on her heel once more. But rather than speak directly to the man in the bed who seemed to be teetering on the edge of consciousness, she thought to speak to the nurse at the station.

Closing the door quietly behind her, she crossed the hallway to the nurse's station. Leaning over the counter, she smiled kindly at the young apprentice who seemed to be hurriedly scrawling notes in a chart. A nurse sitting by the wall turned towards Hermione, her flaming hair not unlike that of her fiancé. If she hadn't known better she'd have thought her to be a relative.

"Gwen," Hermione began in a kind but stern tone. "The patient – in room A-7—"

"The John Smith?" she replied.

"Yes," Hermione replied. "Please have him moved to the isolation ward upstairs. I'll be solely responsible for his care, though if in an emergency I'm unavailable, see to it that Marcus treats him."

Gwen turned her head curiously, but Hermione didn't give her the opportunity to query further. "See to it, please. Before this evening." And with that, Hermione picked up the chart the apprentice had been busy writing in, and proceeded to the patient's room.

* * *

><p>Hermione had visited her "unidentified" patient's room twice more that day, once to check on his needs – which he had none, short of the required doses of his prescription potions – and another to inform him of the room change. He seemed pleased at the last bit of news, if only judging by his slight change in facial expression, and she assisted with the move.<p>

The process didn't take very long at all, with the aid of magic on the side of the Healers. Hermione and Marcus worked together to levitate the patient from bed to stretcher, and then stretcher to the awkwardly tight stairwell. It was a feat to fit the long stretcher in there, but they managed, with the patient safely constrained with the use of confining charms. Finally they made it to the designated floor, and though this ward was used infrequently, it was readily appropriated to handle a multitude of needs.

As she guided the stretcher to one of the rooms, it came to life with light. With Marcus' aid, she moved the patient into the bed, covering him with the clean and sterile sheets. As she bade farewell to Marcus, thanking him for his assistance, she turned towards the patient in the bed once more. Still hesitant to refer to him as Severus, or Snape, or any combination of titles and names he may have preferred, she tried to distance herself from her suspicion, and would call him "the patient" in her mind until he confirmed what she already knew to be true.

Hermione performed a thorough, yet quick, examination of him, ensuring that nothing had changed since she had left him earlier. Even though he grimaced as she gently fingered some of the wounds, he seemed as intact as she had left him.

As she arranged a chair to sit beside his bed, she looked at him closely, studying his face. He watched her too, as though waiting for her to make her move, and as she lowered herself into the chair she placed by him, and turned her head curiously to the side.

"How long are you going to continue without speaking?" she knew it was foolish to ask such a question to a man who refused to say a word, but she thought it worthwhile to try.

He smirked slightly, the corner of his mouth tugging just barely. Turning his eyes from her to the window where the orange sky was darkening as the sun disappeared behind the horizon, Hermione released a frustrated sigh.

"I will find out either way, you know," she said pointedly. "I'm a very clever witch, or so I'm told."

A small chuckle eased out of him, but it suddenly twisted into a raspy cough, and he clutched at his chest. Hermione conjured a self-refilling goblet, helping him drink the icy water within, and he finally managed to catch his breath, leaning back into the pillows.

He turned to her, a crease pressed between his eyebrows, emphasizing the fine wrinkles around his eyes and the deep crevices in his forehead. He looked at her strangely, his expression meaningless to her if not a look of concern or confusion.

"What is it?" she pressed, leaning close to him, her fingers pressed to his throat, counting his pulse. It was rapid, but strong, and as she pulled back from him, her eyes hurriedly searched his face.

He parted his lips to speak, but at first, nothing came out. A rash sound escaped him as he cleared his throat, and he managed a simple word: "…thank…" His voice was weak, cracking as he spoke, as though it had been a very long time since he had actually used it.

Hermione touched her hand to his forehead in a motherly fashion, checking for a high temperature. As she pressed her fingers to his throat once more, her eyes watching the second hand of her watch as she counted the beating of his heart. After a quiet moment had passed, she turned her gaze to his face once more, but he wasn't looking at her anymore.

"Are you at least going to tell me your name?" she asked, her voice soft.

He didn't respond, and in that moment, she finally realized it would take a great deal more than cleaning him and healing his wounds to earn his trust. Finally resigning to the reality of the situation, she nodded.

"I understand," she said, and she tucked her hand into her pocket. "I know you're familiar with this," she handed him a Galleon, and as he looked at her curiously, she smiled. "It's fake. I've charmed it with a Protean charm. If you need me, just use it, and I will be here as soon as I possibly can."

He held the coin in his palm, studying it closely before curling his fingers around it and nodding to her. "If I can't make it immediately, the serial number around the edge here" – she pulled open his hand gingerly and pointed to the numerals she was referring to – "will change to the time I estimate I will arrive."

He seemed to consider her with a certain amount of… respect, or perhaps intrigue, though she couldn't be sure, as it was hard to gauge the meaning behind someone's expressions when they never shared words. She smiled, surprised at her own swelling pride; it was the first time he ever really displayed towards her any positive regard.

"It's identical to the method Dumbledore's Army congregated in my fifth year at Hogwarts," she said coolly, intended as an open display of her certainty of his identity.

He simply nodded in acknowledgement and turned his face away from her, clutching the coin close to his chest. With that final gesture, she left him to rest, turning on her heel and gently closing the door behind her.

With the evening rapidly approaching, she seriously considered staying the night in the room next door. The bed wasn't very comfortable, she knew, but that could be fixed, and she dreaded leaving the man overnight. If he needed her – and she wouldn't have been surprised if he had, it would be his first night in the infirmary and often times if something went wrong with a patient, it often happened within twenty-four hours of admittance.

As she descended the staircase to the emergency floor, Hermione decided she would indeed remain at the hospital overnight – just as a precautionary method. When she entered her office, she threw some powder into the hearth and stepped through the flames to let Ron know of her plans.

As she emerged through the hearth into their small apartment, Hermione spotted Ron reclining on the couch, fixated on the television. He was watching the Muggle news network again, and she frowned. She wished she would find him elsewhere, but it seemed each evening she returned, there he was in front of the television. He only spent four hours of his day at the joke shop, and the rest of his day was spent vegetating on the couch.

"I'm going to be staying at the hospital tonight, Ron," she said. "We admitted a very unstable patient today, and I don't want to leave him alone through the night."

Ron looked at her as though he had never noticed her entrance in the first place. Rising from the couch, he came to her, pulling her into his arms and kissing her. She returned the gesture but pulled from his arms quickly, disappearing into the green flames once more.

Passing through the department, she stopped by the nurse's station and informed the night nurse there of her plan. She nodded, knowing full well that it was common of Hermione to stay when she was overseeing the care of a particularly ill patient, and the Healer was off in a flurry of lime green.

Climbing the stairs, she checked her watch. It was only nearing nine o'clock, but she didn't know if he would be wakeful. She rapped gently on his door with her knuckles and entered, peering around the door. There was no light; the soft glow of the moon offered scant illumination, but it was enough to make out his form in the bed if she squinted. He was lying on his side, facing the window.

Coming around the bed, her presence did not go unnoticed by the saturnine man in the bed. His sallow face turned towards her, his dark eyebrow arched in curiosity, and he moved gingerly onto his back.

"I'm going to stay in the next room over, if you need anything," she said, plainly. "I didn't want to be too far away should something happen."

He only nodded once, as though leery of her true intentions. His forehead relaxed, the deep creases still apparent through his age. Again, she was frighteningly reminded of the Potions Master she had come to despise during her school years at Hogwarts, and despite his resistance to admit it to her, she knew it had to be him.

"I don't understand why you won't talk," she said softly, chewing her lip as she considered her next statement. "But I do understand that it is going to take some time to earn your trust."

He didn't say a word to her, instead turning from her to look out the window. She took that as her excusal, and wishing him a good night, she left the room.

She had several potions she needed to begin brewing and quickly, she descended the stairs to the dungeon beneath the hospital. She smiled to herself almost cynically; how appropriate it was for the hospital to have an apothecary in the dungeons when she would be creating potions for the very man who had taught her everything she had known – in dungeons.

She began the process, lighting several cauldrons and pulling out the book that would guide her in the process. Several hours later – when she checked her watch, it was nearing one in the morning – she had finished, and the potions would have to mature until morning before they were ready.

Removing her gloves and rubbing at her eyes, she dragged herself up the stairs. In her exhaustion they seemed exaggerated in their length, and she felt as though years had passed before she had made it to the isolation floor. Passing by the patient's room, she peered in just quickly. The room was dark, but she could hear his rattling breaths, even and deep with sleep.

With the silence settling in all around her in the sterile confines of her own small room, Hermione's mind began to whirl. She had manage to suppress her anxieties as she worked with him – compartmentalizing was a wonderful skill to possess, she had learned long ago – and so now, with so many emotions boiling up and threatening to spill, she found herself overwhelmed with her own mind.

As she laid back in the spongy hospital bed, she let her eyes flicker closed for just a split second to see the form of Severus Snape, clutching desperately at his throat in attempts to close the bleeding wound. He was gasping for air as he collapsed to the ground, a pool of blood quickly forming around him as Harry lurched forward…

Shaking her head of the mortifying memory, she thought back to the man in the room next door. The scars from her vicious fangs tainted the otherwise smooth flesh of his neck. She recalled, with a start, the thin mark of a blade pressed against his throat. It was not a scar, but a fresh wound, and she couldn't help but ponder what had brought him to the hospital in the first place.

He seemed so concerned with keeping his identity a secret. She wondered if there was anyone else who realized that he was, in fact, still alive. There must have been; what else could explain the brutality of the attack he was victim to? The injuries he received were those of vengeance, not of war. What role was he playing that required his identity to remain hidden?

She shook her head. Of course, this was all wild conjecture until he confirmed her suspicions to be true. Though, quite honestly, it _was_ rather difficult to mistake those distinguishing features for anyone else. She had very little doubt that she had just taken care of the man she was certain she witnessed die, and yet he was laying in bed in the next room over.

In that moment, she was quite glad for the confidentiality laws that governed her work. It ensured that, no matter what, she could not be forced to give the identity of the patient in the next room over, and as she laid in bed staring at the ceiling he was so often fixated on, she made a note to point that out to him tomorrow, when she pressed for more information.

* * *

><p>Hermione's morning was rather slow, but the remainder of her day would not remain that way. Even so, she slipped into the history department of the hospital. Stepping inside the door, she was reminded vaguely of the Hall of Prophecy in the Ministry of Magic. There were shelves towering well above where the ceiling should have been, reaching easily twenty feet in the air, if not further. The rows between were narrow, almost labyrinthine, and there was a thick layer of dust covering the floor.<p>

The attendant working the thousands upon thousands of folders spotted her immediately, and though Hermione could not remember the young man's name, he recognized her nearly immediately.

"Ms. Granger!" he exclaimed eagerly. She knew this was an area of the hospital that was very infrequently visited, and it was quite apparent in the young man's avid greeting. "What can I do for you?"

"Point me in the direction of 'S'," she said quickly.

The young man seemed quite deflated at her hurried tone, but gestured in the direction of her goal. Nodding her thanks, she hurried down the row. Peering over her should to ensure she was not being watched, she brandished her wand and whispered, "_Accio_ Severus Snape file."

Obediently, the thin folder came soaring towards her from the very top of the shelf. Catching it gracefully, she frowned as the file weighed barely more than the one for the patient upstairs. She flicked it open, her brown eyes hurriedly scanning its contents. On the very front page, there was a small photograph of the man of the file. His long, pale face glared menacingly up at her.

"_Geminio_," she whispered, and a twin of the file appeared in her hands. She tucked the copy into her robes and sent the original file back up to its location.

Quickly sweeping through the dusty corridor, she vacated the large room with a quick wave to the young man working it. Before heading to her office, she descended into the basement apothecary to retrieve the potions she had brewed the night previous. They would be ready for administration, and collecting the covered vials, she locked the door behind her.

She made directly for her office, where she sat down behind her desk and spread Snape's file. She searched it for anything relevant, anything at all – there were a few notes on various scars on his body, and when she went to reassess him later that morning, she made a note to check for those.

He had to know she would discover the truth eventually. He should also have known she wouldn't speak a word to anyone if that was his wish. She couldn't imagine why – he was a hero in their world, his portrait hung proudly in the Headmaster's office of Hogwarts. As soon as Harry confessed to everyone that Severus Snape had been on their side all along – and had not murdered Albus Dumbledore so much as spared him a very painful death – there was a wave of sorrow that washed over the school. Harry had left Snape's history much a secret though – including his lifelong love of his mother (which admittedly made Hermione tear up when she learned of it, especially when she realized what his Patronus was).

There was nothing more significant in his folder, and Hermione sighed in frustration. Closing the folder and tucking it away in a drawer of her desk, she rose from her chair and made for the isolation ward. Passing by the station, she plucked up a copy of the morning's Daily Prophet and climbed the stairs.

Rapping gently on the door, she waited a moment before entering. When there came no response, she pushed open the door and moved around the privacy curtain to the man lying in the bed.

"Good morning," she said softly. He simply looked at her, a curt nod indicating his return greeting. "I didn't know if you'd be interested, but I brought you the paper." She waved it in the air casually before setting it beside him. "I need to examine you, but before I do is there anything I can get for you? Do you need to use the loo?"

The corners of his mouth tugged in a frown and he nodded, as though suddenly very aware of nature's call. Smiling gently, she searched through the bedside table and removed an elongated plastic receptacle.

"I don't suppose I need to show you how to use this," she said, handing it over to him. "I'll be on the other side of the curtain."

Disappearing from sight, she hoped he wouldn't suddenly suffer performance anxiety. But with her morning tasks requiring her attention, she did not want to wait too long before she got started simply because he refused to use the perfectly-healthy chords in his throat. And so she waited behind the curtain, listening to his grunting and groans as he appropriated the urinal.

After silence settled in on the room once more, she waited quietly a moment longer before coming around the curtain. Taking the urinal from him, she tapped it with her wand and it vanished, only to be replaced a few moments later by a clean container. She set it beside his bed on the table, and began her morning exam.

Donning gloves, she pressed in on the wounds she treated yesterday. The smaller cuts had already healed with barely a silver streak of a scar, while the gaping lacerations were warm to the touch and thinner than they had been. With her wand directed at each wound individually, she chanted the same quiet spell and another half hour passed before she finished. Then, she gently pressed in on the bones she mended, and when he did not wince, she knew they were holding together well.

She drew the modesty ribbon from his gown, rolling down the chest. He didn't watch her so carefully this time, instead staring out the window with a scowl. The file made mention of a twelve centimeter scar traveling the length of his breastbone and another above his right nipple, only eight centimeters, but significant enough to be mentioned. Removing her gloves, she smoothed her hands over his emaciated chest, the wiry black hairs scratching against her hands. Surely enough, a long, silvery scar followed the path of his sternum. She drew in her breath sharply, and the man before her looked to her with alarm. With her eyes focused on his chest, he followed her gaze to the scar she studied so closely.

Looking up at him, her normally smooth forehead wrinkled with furrowed brow, she pulled her hands away from his chest, covering him once more with the gown. He met her gaze levelly, his dark eyes studying her face closely. She turned from him, emptying her pockets and setting each vial on the bedside table.

"This will begin to heal your heart," she said, holding up a yellowish liquid. "I need you to drink all of it, and I warn you now, it isn't exactly palatable."

He reached out to her, grasping the vial from her hands and tossing it back unceremoniously. His face twisted into a disgusted grimace, but he swallowed hard, forcing the solution into his stomach. It wasn't a minute more he was clutching at his chest, gasping ragged breaths of air. Hermione watched with sympathy, knowing his reaction was expected, and sat beside him for him to ride the discomfort out.

He sat straight up in his bed, grabbing at his chest and throat as though he were drowning. She laid a reassuring hand on his thigh, and after several more minutes, he collapsed back into the bed, breathing heavily, but alive.

"I don't like to mention it mimics a heart attack," she said with an apologetic tone. "It's much more difficult to administer it when the patient is so apprehensive of dying. Though – I'm sure you knew that, given you didn't actually protest during the throes."

He scowled at her before turning his attention to the second vial on the counter.

She followed his gaze. "Ah." Picking up a solution of vivid blue, she swirled it around in the jar. "This is the second dose. To be taken in an hour. And this." She lifted a glass vial with a murky green solution inside. "Addresses the problems with the rest of your organs."

He tipped his head back as if to say, 'Ah.' His gaze dropped to the paper she left there, and he lifted it into his lap.

"I wanted to inform you that I am bound by confidentiality laws. If… if you so desired, I wouldn't even be able to change the name on the chart. You would continue to be patient" – she lifted the chart from its holder – "zero two three dash ten."

With the paper open in his lap, he turned his eyes on her, his eyebrow arched with piqued curiosity. He folded his hands on top of the newspaper, the paper crackling beneath the weight, as he considered her.

She noted his sudden change in mood, and quickly added: "I also reviewed the file of whom I believe you to be."

Just minutely, his expression changed, but if she hadn't been paying close attention she would have missed it. Like a glimmer of hope in the eye of the hopeless, across his face flickered an expression of concern, but it lasted only a second before his countenance returned to its previous emotionless state.

"It is rather bare, as well." She gestured to the file in her hands as comparison. "But it makes note of two particularly distinctive marks. And no, not the Dark Mark" – her eyes flickered to the faded scar on his left forearm – "but those."

Rising to her feet, she set the file on the edge of the bed and leaned over him. Touching her cool hands to his chest, she traced the lines of the scar down his breastbone, and the one above his nipple. He glared at her in frustration and finally breathed a raspy sigh of resignation. She sat back in the chair, clutching the file to her lap, her gaze holding his.

His eyes flickered from her face to the general location of the door, and without having spoken a word, Hermione heard the quiet click of the lock. Her heart began racing, and there was a subtle tremor in her hands as she forced them against the tops of her thighs to quell the trembling. Even without his wand – who knew where it was at this point – he was capable of simple spells. She couldn't help but wonder the extent of his magical ability.

He cleared his throat. "Yes…Granger," his voice was weak, grainy, as though he hadn't spoken for some time. The words were broken, cracking as they left his lips. "But… mustn't say… word."

"But – you're—" she gasped.

"It... irrelevant." His dark eyes scanned the room for something, and Hermione stood quickly. "Water…"

She conjured a goblet full of self-replenishing ice water and helped him as he drank. With her hand cradling his head she held the goblet to his lips and pulled away as soon as he gestured to her. After three goblets' worth of water, he motioned for her to set the goblet on the table. There, it refilled with ice water, and she lowered herself to the chair once more, her eyes carefully fixed on his face.

"How?" she pressed.

Before he responded, he cleared his throat again. Even though his voice had regained some of its oily strength, it still broke on his words. "Did you… think that I… wouldn't… come prepared… that morning?" Speaking required more of his energy than he preferred, and his chest heaved with his breath.

"Pre—what do you mean?" Hermione stammered, her hands reaching forcefully for anything to maintain her posture. She couldn't believe how broken, how fragile, his voice was. She was so accustomed to the calm, commanding, and icy-cold intonation that carried across the dungeons. For a split second, she heard his raspy whisper to Harry, broken and struggling much the same as he was now.

_"Look… at… me…"_

Her hands trembled as she stared at him. Even though she had suspected for nearly an entire day that he was indeed Severus Snape, she felt overwhelmed by the surge of emotions flooding her at that moment. She was shocked – no, that wasn't even strong enough a word to describe the paralyzing astonishment she felt in that moment.

"Granger…" he groaned. "Don't… give… enough credit… there are many… things I am… skilled…" He gestured to the goblet, and quickly she rose to assist him in drinking. Sighing in exhaustion, he leaned back into the pillow after he finished drinking.

"What should I call you?" she asked him, her voice trembling.

"Anything but… my name," he replied, his eyes flickering closed. His body settled deeper into the pillow behind him, and his head lulled to the side.

She knew he needed his rest, but she had so many questions for him. His cryptic answers did nothing to soothe her curiosity, and as he laid in bed, his breathing slowing as he drifted into sleep, her mind whirled. How had he survived that attack? Where had he been these past six years? Why was his identity a secret?

But in that moment, the Healer in Hermione conquered, and her primary concern rested in whatever brought him to St. Mungo's.

* * *

><p>AN: "John Smith" is one of the common placeholder names used in England in the case of an unidentified person (similar to "John Doe" in the United States).


	2. Chapter 2

Rating: M – inappropriate for readers under the age of 16; contains scenes of explicit sexuality and violence.  
>Disclaimer: Characters and settings ©J.K. Rowling.<p>

Author's note: I could not believe the overwhelming support I received for this story. Thank you all so much for your reviews!

**Potions, Plans, and Second Chances**

K. Marie

**Chapter 2**

Cold.

It was the only tangible thought that entered his mind. There was a violent tremble to his entire body, quickly accompanied by a feeling of nausea. His stomach heaved and the taste of bile filled his mouth. He turned his face to the side, lurching what little contents his stomach contained.

A sudden wave of panic washed over him, and his breathing became rapid wheezes. A sense of doom engulfed him. He couldn't get enough oxygen. Deeper breaths. Deeper still. He couldn't sate his thirst for air.

His hands, trembling and weak, roamed the pockets of his tattered robes. His spidery fingers searched the depths, but found nothing – nothing but the bottom of the pouch. He tore his hands from his robes and the faint sound of fabric ripping reached his ears, but he didn't care. His tremulous hands reached for his throat, searching for the fatal wound, his ragged breaths still failing him. His heart was fluttering so fast in his chest he could barely feel the pulse.

His fingers found the twin scars on his throat. Scars. Scars. The panic that gripped him slowly dissipated, his ragged breathing finally providing him the air he sought so desperately to have. His chest was sore as it stretched to accommodate his filling lungs, and he became vaguely aware of an odd twinge of pain with each beat of his heart.

Turning his head, he felt the soft whisper of blades of grass against his face. He breathed in deep, drinking in the scent. Quickly it was replaced by the pungent odor of bile, of blood, and of human waste. His stomach lurched again, his throat burning.

Slowly, he peeled his eyelids back and was immediately blinded by a surge of white light. Shielding his face with a jerky movement of his arm, he felt a sudden wave of excruciating pain wash over him and a shout escaped his lips.

He fell into impossible silence; the only sound was the blood rushing through his ears…

The first thing he remembered was the smell of a woman; the intermingling scent of floral shampoo and an exotic perfume he had never before encountered. Somehow it overpowered the sickly stench that emanated from his own body; a mix of blood, sweat, dirt, and waste. The taste of bile lingered in his mouth.

The feeling of hands roaming his body registered shortly. There was fabric resting against his legs, and he became vaguely aware that his body was trembling. Small, gentle – yet firm – hands lifted his arm, turning it delicately, as though inspecting a very fine piece of pottery that would shatter at the slightest movement. He could feel a ginger touch smoothing over his forearm, the pads of his hands, the length of his fingers. And then his arm returned to the bed, and he became aware of the dampness of the sheets upon which he lay.

The voices – he hadn't noticed them before – flooded his mind. Before, a dull murmur as the two occupants in the room conversed over him – the words were foreign to him, if only because the syllables were muffled and unclear – now formed full sentences in his mind. He could understand their speech, and though they spoke as though he wasn't there, he knew they were referring to him.

"Conjecture," a man's voice said softly, as though he were afraid of being overheard.

"Very well," the second voice belonged to a woman, and she must have been directly over him. No doubt she was performing the gentle exam. "Thank you, Marcus. You can leave."

Vaguely, he heard heavy footsteps and the soft click of a door closing. Quietly, the woman above him made soft sounds as she moved over him, thoughtful hums, though he doubted she realized she was even doing it. He felt her uncover his leg, her warm hands manipulating the limb delicately. Finally, agile fingers smoothed over his toes, and the blanket was returned.

The quiet click of her heels indicated she moved around the bed. His other leg was suddenly bare, exposed to the cool atmosphere of the room. Her warm hands were pleasant against his frigid flesh, the feeling of her soft palms smoothing over the wiry hairs of his leg. She reached the pad of his foot, released a thoughtful "Hmm," and covered him once more.

Suddenly there was a bristle of fabric covering his groin, and without thinking, Severus wrenched out his hand, holding tight to her wrist. The jerky movement forced him upright, and he grimaced in pain as he aggravated his wounded ribs, gingerly leaning into his arm.

She released a quiet, surprised cry when his hand wrapped around her arm. As her eyes met his, a foreboding sense of familiarity washed over him. He hoped he concealed the flash of recognition that he knew must have crossed his face as he met her gaze. Those amber eyes held such defiance in the past, a certain stubbornness that was so very Gryffindor.

Of all the Healers…

Her lips parted, and he shook his head slowly.

"But I need to ensure—" She choked her own voice, her eyes frantically searching his face. She could not conceal the subtle glance to his throat, and even less so when her eyes flickered to his left forearm.

Severus released her wrist as he lowered himself once more to the bed. An excruciating wave of pain coursed through his body as though every bone was shattered, and he groaned in pain. He allowed his eyes to close against the bright lighting of the room, the rushing sound of blood pulsing in his ears. Vaguely, he heard the rustle of paper. A violent shiver wracked his body, sending a subsequent wave of pain coursing from his toes to his fingers, and reluctantly, he pulled the sheets to his chest. The small movement did not do much to lessen his pain, but he was slightly warmer, and less exposed.

He felt her hand supporting his head, the cold lip of a goblet pressed to his mouth. His gaze flickered to her face, the compassion in her eyes burning like fire. He tipped his head back and swallowed the soothing solution, and the pain in his body dulled almost immediately.

She hadn't torn her eyes from his face, and he held her gaze steadily. He wondered what thoughts must be battling for the forefront of her mind. Of all the Healers to care for him, she _would_ be the one to oversee his treatment. It was a cruel twist of fate, and if he didn't fear his chest would split, Severus would have laughed.

When her eyes did abandon his gaze, it was only to linger on the scars of his throat. He suspected that the moment she discovered those distinctive scars, she already had her suspicion – but surely she would have disregarded it. Magic won't return life to the dead, and she, of all people, would know that to be true.

A rather peculiar feeling washed over him as he held her steady gaze. She must have been panicking under that calm countenance she offered him; her face had blanched the moment she met his gaze. And yet, he felt a soothing sense of serenity in her presence. She was the first person he had encountered since his "death" in the Shrieking Shack that he had recognized – and had recognized him – and she had no intent on harming him.

Even so, he knew, rather solemnly, that despite the feeling of tranquility she offered him in that moment, he could not confess to her that he was as she suspected. To do so – it would thwart all that he had managed to build in the past six years. She had no proof, and even if she were to tell anyone – they would think her mad. He had died six years ago on the second of May. He held her gaze steadily.

She breathed deeply, and he knew she was no doubt, psychologically steeling herself. He could nearly see the thoughts as they crossed her mind: the shock of her recognition; the need to remain professional; and the overwhelming sense that her world as she knew it was coming to a crashing halt. She turned from him, reaching for the basin on his table.

She intended to bathe him. Briefly, Severus felt humiliated. Whether it was within her responsibilities as a Healer or not didn't matter to him. For her to witness him in such a vulnerable state – to the point that he could not even perform the most basic daily tasks – it was beyond shame, it was opprobrious. He was by no means a proud man, but to be reduced to an invalid in the care of a former student, one whom he had mercilessly tormented through her years at Hogwarts—

Of course, she _would_ be the Healer assigned to his care.

Without the energy to resist her, he cooperated as she smoothed the warm cloth over his face. Her touch was gentle and soothing, and he admitted – begrudgingly so – that it did, indeed, feel good to be clean. As she moved over his throat, he tipped his head back for her. She paused as she cleaned away the filth from his scars, a small crease pressing itself into her forehead as she furrowed her brow.

She applied a paste into his wounds that bled as she cleaned them. He pulled his left arm from her as she gestured to clean it, and she held him with a fierce, challenging stare. Her eyes lingered only a moment on the silvery Mark, and she moved on. If she had any doubt of his identity, he hardly believed it persisted. Watching her face, he winced in pain as her hands roamed over broken bones.

A sense of incredible intimacy engulfed him as she moved down his body, cleansing every spot of dirt and drop of crusting blood. She handled him gently in a way he had not experienced in what seemed like eons – there was compassion and empathy even in her slightest of touches. He didn't understand the strange sense of warmth he felt for her in that moment, but he could not deny its existence. He knew it was based in the fact she was his first kind encounter in years, and a part of him so desperately reached out for that – but he knew it could not last.

When she was finally finished, she wrung the cloth out into the basin. The sound of water inspired a feeling of ungodly thirst, and he was painfully reminded of the disgusting taste of bile and blood in his mouth.

"I was asked to do a consultation," her voice was meek as she lowered into the chair.

Her wand was held towards the head of the bed, and he felt himself rise slowly. He didn't expect the seated position to be comfortable, but it was welcoming to his sore back.

"I am the best Healer this hospital has to offer," there was no pride in her voice, no condescending tone he would have expected a position to offer. She stated it as plain fact, no suggestive intonation at all. "Your injuries are severe, as I'm sure you can imagine. The others – they don't trust their ability to heal you properly."

As he stared at her face, he wondered how much strength she required to maintain such a calm façade. A fine silver chain hung from her neck, and her rapid pulse caused it to shudder just slightly against the delicate flesh of her skin. Despite her calm breathing, he could easily see that she was just moments from collapsing.

"My colleagues tell me you haven't spoken a word since you arrived here," she stood for a moment, reaching for the folder at the foot of his bed. Holding it to him, her finger rested on the identification sticker on the front. "You are listed as a number, and that's all. We have no information on your identity, no history."

She sunk into the chair, the file open in her lap. As he watched her closely, the folder in her hands began shuddering violently as her hands trembled, the quiet rustle of the paper the only indication he needed to know she was, indeed, crumbling under her suspicion. She looked at him after a long moment, her voice cracking as though she were about to cry. "You're more than just a number, though. If you are who I think you are… you're a hero."

A hero. If he weren't so exhausted, he would have sneered. Turning from her, he let his eyes stare at nothing. Vaguely, he registered the feeling of warmth around his head as she set his hair to rights. It spread around him, smooth and clean as though he had just stepped from the shower. He felt her lift the debris from the pillow, and quietly it fell into the trash.

He couldn't look at her. In that moment, he was afraid that if he met her eyes, his entire composure would crumble. She had already bathed him, and if that wasn't humiliating enough – the last thing he needed was to break in front of her. The first familiar, compassionate human being to encounter and it had to be her.

The only reason it was so difficult for either of them was because they were both there that morning. There's a certain affinity to be had in the mutual experience of death, an intimacy that is shared between those who witnessed such a traumatic event. She had been there, witnessed the great serpent sink her venomous fangs into his throat; she had conjured the vial that collected his memories for the boy to view in the Pensieve – no doubt he confessed to her all he had seen.

An interesting twist of fate. Not only had she bore witness to his attempted murder (and presumed death), she would be his first compassionate human contact in the six years since that early morning. While he may not have approved of his sudden sentimentality towards her, he certainly understood its source.

"Where have you been?" her voice was barely audible, as though she was afraid of breaking him. "I… I watched you die."

He couldn't help the smirk that tugged at his mouth or the quiet chuckle that broke free. His eyes were fixed on a crack in the ceiling, and he shook his head. Though he knew that he had needed her to believe such, he was fleetingly insulted that she discredited his abilities as a wizard. He had thought he proved himself rather admirably on the many occasions he had come to her aid, her infinite resourcefulness proving quite valuable to Potter, but not necessarily the solution to their problem.

She came into his view rather suddenly, her wand held at his face. An irrational sense of panic washed over him, only to be replaced by an unbearable pain in his nose as a crack resonated in the room. The scent of blood overwhelmed his senses and a cool cloth was pressed against his nostrils. A small pair of fingers clamped tight on the bridge, and a whispered command had his hand replacing hers on the flannel.

"_Confuto epistaxi_." For a brief moment, he felt as though two large wads of cotton were stuffed into his nose. The scent of blood faded and she pulled the cloth out of his hands.

The lack of commentary as she worked over him would have grated at the most patient man's nerves, and Severus was not that man. As her wand flicked this way and that, her quiet incantations and whispered monologue (most of which was completely unintelligible) sifting through his ears like sand, he could feel the wounds begin to seal themselves. It was a calming feeling but it didn't last; within seconds she was applying a devilish liquid to his gaping wounds. He didn't realize it at first until he was overcome with a feeling not unlike that of the Cruciatus Curse – as the potion frothed, a vicious hissing sound lifting off the flesh with a gray smoke. The feeling of searing hot blades pressing into his skin overwhelmed his mind, and for a moment, he thought he would faint from the pain. He would not be spared the experience however; a loud groan escaped him and his entire body violently tensed against the pain, the ropy muscles of his withered body contracting maliciously. Clenching his mouth closed against crying out, he ground his teeth.

When the final drop settled into his flesh, Severus was finally released from the throes of agony. Cynically, he thought to himself, that while the torture curse was cleaner, a sadistic son of a bitch could garner much more satisfaction with that hateful little potion she had in her hands. Faintly, he realized she was casting a healing spell above him, her wand directed at each individual wound. A soft golden glow accompanied the feeling of warmth surrounding the lacerations that spanned his body.

He found it both irritating and interesting that the very student who never seemed to silence herself in his classroom was so averted to providing any commentary on her next movement. As her eyes busily scanned his form, her hands busily worked with her wand, quiet words escaping her lips in a tongue that was foreign to both of them – at least, he didn't believe she spoke Latin, and he sure as hell didn't. As she worked, his skin darkened to a sickly bruise color, and admittedly, he wondered how she could distinguish the true bruises from the marks she created.

Under each purple stain, a sickening snap resonated and his brain surged with pain. She was setting each individual bone – one of the easier tasks as a Healer, he knew – and each spell yielded a subsequent grunt of agony as he curled his fingers around the edge of the mattress, squeezing until his hands were white as bone.

He didn't notice when she tucked her wand away, and only turned to her when she spoke. "This is going to very unpleasant," her voice carried a tone of sympathy and apology. "But it must be done to ensure the proper treatment of any internal trauma."

Severus was familiar with the next step in her process, an unbearable procedure that he had endured at the hands of Poppy Pomfrey many times before. Nodding slowly, he swallowed deep, the muscles in his throat sore. He watched her as she watched him, and a moment passed where she was simply sitting the chair, her amber eyes fixed on his face, betraying her as she scanned his features.

Volumes were spoken through a person's eyes; it was no coincidence they were called the looking glass into someone's soul. Legilimency was a very valuable skill to have, but so often, it was not required to know the thoughts running through a person's mind. As she sat across from him, her glossy amber eyes moving over his face as though she could never look at him enough, she spoke volumes upon volumes of silent words. She was questioning her sanity, for one; but then, wouldn't he? She had witnessed his final breath – or so she believed. Convincing an episode as it was; potions could do peculiar things to the human body, if given the opportunity.

Finally, she rose, moving to the medicine cabinet. His dark eyes watched her move, the subtle tremor of her hands she couldn't seem to control, her carefully contained frustration as she struggled with the various vials in the drawer. Finally, she turned to him, a vial in her hand. Her warm hand pressed against the back of his head, supporting him once more as he swallowed the sticky, unpalatable potion, grimacing as it slithered down his throat in disgusting globs.

The anxious sigh that rattled her throat did nothing to ease his own apprehension. There was a certain blessing in being unaware of the procedures she was performing, and it was that one did not know what to expect. But he knew fully what would come of her next move, and as she raised her hands in the air, he breathed in deep, bracing himself for the violent surge of agony that was about to wash over him.

The moment she began reciting the incantation, his body felt as though it were combusting from the inside. The waves of excruciating torment that flooded his body in that moment made the previous potion – the one he likened to the Cruciatus Curse – seem like a sexual climax in comparison. A groan escaped him, choked with a sob, as the agony persisted for what seemed like an eternity, and he was certain she had just disemboweled him.

Then, as sudden as it had struck, the feeling washed away. His entire body felt warm, as though submerged in soothing water, washing away the filth and the guilt and the pain. It vaguely reminded him of the feeling of blood returning to the empty veins as death relinquished his icy grasp.

He hadn't realized it, but as he basked in the blissful feeling of her spell, his body had tensed, flushing as it was with blood. With his back arched in the air, his face twisted into a pleasured gasp, as though he had just experienced the godliest of orgasms a man could experience. As she released him from her spell, he slowly returned to the surface of the bed, and was unpleasantly surprised at the symptom that protruded from his body as a result of increased blood flow.

Shamefully, and a bit embarrassed, Severus gathered the sheets around him to his groin. An overwhelming sense of humility struck him as he avoided her eyes. She was simply studying him, he knew – gauging his reaction, no doubt, and trying to predict his future behaviors – but having been at her mercy for far too long, he couldn't help but feel what remaining pride he had wilt beneath her stare. Not only had this young woman – whom he had brutally and mercilessly taunted and ridiculed for nearly her entire time at school – bathed him and tended to his wounds, she essentially witnessed an incredibly private, intimate moment. And not once did he detect criticism or judgment in the warmth of her eyes.

Holding the blankets protectively to his groin, he shook his head, as though literally shedding from it the thoughts that lingered there.

His Healer rose once more from the chair, moving to the medicine cabinet – a routine he was quickly growing weary of. She rummaged through the drawer, withdrawing a small vial and displacing its contents into a goblet. Assisting him to drink – and with no lingering discomfort, or any other emotion aside from compassion and concern – she cradled his head in her hand, the goblet held to his lips.

"It's really quite amazing you survived this long with these injuries," she said. "Had you not received proper treatment in time—" Her voice cracked, and as he watched her face he could tell she had thought back to the morning in the Shrieking Shack. "It is fortunate you arrived here when you did."

He turned from her, allowing his eyes to drift to the ceiling once more, lingering along the length of the crack there. It was not lost on him how difficult it was for her to recall that moment; it almost seemed as though she struggled as much with the memory as he did. The corner of his mouth tugged in the faintest of smirks. How curious, indeed.

Of course, she would be his Healer. Fate was a cruel temptress in that way.

Her fingers were wrapped around the armrests of her chair, as though she were afraid she would be torn from it in any moment. She was close to him, and her subtle scent lingered all around him.

"Why do you refuse to speak? I know there is nothing wrong with your vocal chords. They may be the only thing, but they are fine."

He hadn't noticed earlier, but a pretty diamond ring rested on her finger. No doubt she was engaged to the Weasley prat. Surely she could have done better than that dunderhead? His cynicism influenced the tugging at his mouth, the corners lifting into a slight smirk. She must care for him, because she was not a woman who needed to settle. His eyes traced the gentle curve of her jaw, the pleasing arch of her cheekbones, the warmth in her amber eyes. Across the bridge of her nose, he noticed a few faint freckles. Like most men, his gaze finally fell to her bosom, and above the neckline of her lime green healer robes, her collar protruded almost delicately, and her chest was freckled from a sun-kissed childhood. She was not incredibly endowed, but there was a pleasant curve to her breasts even he couldn't deny. She was much more attractive now than he remembered, though it could simply have been that she was much older, and no longer his student. She certainly would not have needed to settle on Weasley – though how she could tolerate the brainless conversation, Severus could not fathom.

She leaned into his bed, her face level with his as she stared deep into his eyes. He could see his reflection in those pretty pools of light, and suddenly he could understand her painful empathy and relentless compassion; he looked absolutely pathetic lying in that hospital bed. Her breath on his face as she spoke was strangely comforting. And at the same exact time, he wished she would just leave.

"Can you at least confirm my suspicions?" her voice was pleading. "You – you don't understand. I watched you die. I saw the pool of blood, your last breath. You stopped breathing."

Turning his face from her, he stared out the window. Having been living in isolation for the past six years with little human interaction outside the hostile encounters with those he hunted, to have her in his company for more than three hours was overwhelming. His head began to throb and he was overcome with the seductive desire to sleep. Allowing his eyes to flicker closed, he hoped she'd understand his silent dismissal – if not, she could sit there and stare at him for the rest of her day, he didn't give a damn.

He heard a small, defeated sigh and the whisper of fabric. Her heels clicked quietly against the tile floor. Subtly, he turned to peer at her from the corner of his eye, watching her leave, but she had paused by the privacy curtain. His curiosities piqued, he opened his eyes and met her gaze.

"If you prefer, to… limit your exposure to those who may recognize you, I may be able to have you moved to an isolation wing, and restrict visitors and mediwizards."

Of course, she _would_ be the Healer to care for him. Thoughtful, compassionate, and loyal to a fault, she would see to it that he received anything he needed while he was committed. Easily a situation to be manipulated if he so chose – and it was a consideration he was seriously entertaining. Offering a brief nod, he agreed to the proposed situation.

"I can see if Marcus is willing to work with you."

To this, he shook his head. Not only was Marcus MacLean a blundering idiot – Severus had worked with him in the past, and the man could not tell foxglove from wilted lily, let alone wield a wand effectively to heal the wounds she had managed with ease – but the fewer people to work with him, the fewer that would have the opportunity to recognize him. After he was able to walk – and breathe easier, he added as he tried to inhale deeply and nearly choked – he would disappear.

"No?" her brow furrowed at his refusal. "Just me, then? I'll see what I can do, but my services are very high in demand." She spoke with the simple factual intonation to her voice again – no pride, as though she were confirming something as simple as her birth date. "I won't be available at all hours, but I can certainly be the one to provide your treatment."

He allowed his eyes to flicker closed as he turned away from her. His mind was drifting and the words she spoke seemed to fade away. He was suddenly reminded of his intense exhaustion, and as his body began to force upon him the rest it so desperately needed, he felt himself slipping to the brim of consciousness. The last thing he remembered was the quiet click of the door, and he was lost in his dreams.

_"Sev."_

_Severus looked up from his drawing to the pretty girl across from him. They were both belly-down on the gray carpet of the Evans' home, crayons in their hands and coloring books at their elbows. Severus was coloring a picture of a hippopotamus, while Lily was busily filling in a drawing of a unicorn._

_"So these – unicorns, I mean – are real?" she asked, a delighted wonder in her voice that made Severus smile, too._

_"Yes," he replied, matter-of-factly, sitting straighter to look at her. "In fact, at Hogwarts, there's this place – the Forbidden Forest – and they live in there! I bet we could go see them sometime. Students aren't supposed to go in the forest, but—"_

_"I think, as long as I'm with you, we'll be okay," Lily said, nodding. "I think we should go look at the unicorns, Severus!"_

_"Alright!" Severus responded cheerfully. "We'll do it!"_

_He lay down on his stomach once more and returned his attention to the picture beneath him, a pink crayon in his hand, busily filling in the body of the hippopotamus. Lily was giggling uncontrollably over her picture and Severus couldn't help but join her in her inconsolable laughter. _

_"You're my best friend ever, Sev," Lily said finally, breathing heavily between giggles._

_Warmth filled the boy as she spoke to him, his heart swelling with joy. "You're my best friend too, Lily."_

_Jumping to her feet, Lily launched herself over Severus, wrapping her arms around his neck and laying on top of him. "Stay with me forever!"_

_"Always!" Severus replied, his cheeks flushing red as she hugged him tight, her small form pressed into his back._

_"Promise?" _

_"I promise."_

The next time he saw Hermione Jean Granger was several hours later. The only other person to enter his room had been a nurse, who brought with her a goblet full of water and a menu for lunch. Having absolutely no appetite, Severus pushed the menu off his bed onto the floor, and continued gazing out the window.

Of all the Healers in the entire hospital, it would have been his fortune to be assigned to Granger. Barely, he could recall the expression on her face as Harry Potter ripped himself out from the Invisibility Cloak that had concealed him from the serpentine menace that he would later defeat. When Albus Dumbledore had told Severus that the time would come when Potter must learn his fate – a detestable fate, leaving the man experiencing a range of emotions towards Dumbledore, the least of which was absolute fury – he knew that moment had arrived. It was only too appropriate – a man's dying wish to have his name cleared of all the sins he was accused of, his only desire before his final breath to look into the eyes of the woman he had dedicated his life to.

The fact that Dumbledore had used Potter like a puppet angered Severus more than words could describe. The sense of betrayal that overwhelmed him in that moment was not like the unbearable sorrow he experienced the moment he learned of Lily Potter's murder. The only saving grace, in his opinion, was that at least this time he was not responsible for the boy's inevitable death. He had done exactly as he promised Lily's memory; he saved the boy from countless threats, preserving the life she died to protect. And yet, even as he lay there on that shambled floor, he knew his task was not complete.

If he denied his amusement at Granger's shock, he would be lying. The fact she could barely hold her composure while she worked with him earlier was gratifying in a sadistic way because he knew it meant he played his part well. She had thought him to be dead and gone, and the moment her eyes met his, she blanched, as though she had seen a ghost.

And from her perspective, she had.

While he received a great deal of satisfaction from her astonishment at his survival, he could not believe the amount of compassion and empathy she showed him. He was unfamiliar with the functioning of hospitals – he had not been treated in one for what must have been several decades now, not since he was a teenager – but he didn't believe it was a Healer's task to bathe the patient and clean him of his filth. But she had taken the time – and a lot of time it indeed required – to clean him thoroughly. The memory of her warm, soft hands roaming his body delicately was, at the very least, an incredibly pleasant thought. It had been a very long time since he had been handled in such a way, and despite his own restraint, he couldn't help the subtle reaction of his body to the woman's touch.

It was absurd to imply he had been at all _aroused_ by the feeling, but he did indeed derive some pleasure from her delicate touch. _How very depraved of you, Severus._ He mused, burying his head in the cushion of his pillows.

The first compassionate human interaction in six years and it was Granger. It was the only rational reason he had to understand his reaction to her, why her mere presence was so compelling. Regardless, he still felt pathetic.

His pitiful mood was only exacerbated when he felt a fleeting feeling of joy as his Healer poked her head in the room. _Really, Severus._ He thought. _Are you so depraved that you're excited over her doing her job?_

"I just wanted to make sure you had everything you needed," she said softly, peering around the privacy curtain. "You're due for some potions, too."

His eyes followed her as she crossed to the medicine cabinet, her hands rummaging around in the drawer. He suspected they were feeding him the standard set of potions: a generic healing potion that would promote circulation to injuries, an antitoxin to help prevent infection of the wounds, a supplement that increased bone cell repair to strengthen mended bones, and a potion that Severus himself had developed to combat the psychological side effects commonly inflicted after repeated victimization to the torture curse.

She remained by his side, her gentle hand cradling his head as she aided him in swallowing the cocktail of concoctions. Her warm brown eyes searched his features, desperately gleaning anything from them she could. He held her gaze for a moment before turning from her to stare out the window, and with a sigh, she was gone.

His frailty never ceased to frustrate him. He could barely hold the goblet to his mouth to drink, let alone stand to use the loo. He dreaded the moment when he would no longer be able to quell the urge to relieve himself. _How demeaning. Humiliating._

Fisting the soft fabric of his covers, he released a bitter groan. Severus Snape had slipped through Death's icy grasp more times than he wished to admit, and here he was, lying in a hospital bed, unable to piss without someone holding his dick for him. The thought sent a surge of anger through the man, and had he the energy to do so, he would have thrown the cursed goblet at the wall.

* * *

><p>The next time Severus had any company in his room was that evening. Hermione came in to inform him of the room change she had offered earlier, and she was not alone as she entered the room; MacLean, the dunderhead Healer who couldn't differentiate asphodel from a bezoar, had accompanied her to assist with the move.<p>

Strangely enough, the man did not seem to recognize Severus though they had worked together in the past. A blessing, he thought, as together the Healers levitated Severus to a stretcher (which, surprisingly, caused him no great discomfort whatsoever) and began the rather menial task of transporting the stretcher to the next floor up.

Emerging onto the isolation ward, Severus cast a mildly interested glance around. The hall looked as though it had gone unused for quite some time, but as they moved through the corridor, candles flickered to life. It was as though the human presence inspired the hallway to facilitate life; brooms appeared from seemingly nowhere, sweeping the dust from the cool tile floor and the door to the room he would inhabit opened before they reached it.

Wizard medicine had improved to the point where this ward was unnecessary, he knew, and it was also likely that they only placed patients there for extenuating circumstances. There was little to no risk of communicable disease once the patients were safely shut away in their own rooms, and so the isolation ward – with its special precautions – was unnecessary. Silently, he thanked the progress of medicine, because it allowed him to remain isolated from the rest of the hospital and away from those who may recognize him. It was unfortunate that Granger had already suspected him; he did not need the rest of the hospital to become enlightened, as well.

Marcus and Granger guided his stretcher to the empty room. A bed appeared from nowhere, the candles throughout the room igniting and emitting a soft glow. Once Severus was levitated to the bed, Marcus was dismissed and Granger brought the covers over his legs. Her small hands began moving over his body in another examination, much more expedient this time, but just as thorough.

He watched her closely as her warm, gentle hands smoothed over his flesh. Her fingers pressed in against the bones she had mended, the bruising all but cleared away. She gingerly touched the bridge of his nose and the skin around his eye – and while it wasn't swollen any longer, the contact still caused him to wince as the flesh was still tender. Her hands skirted around his throat, her gaze resting on the scars there just briefly before she moved down his chest.

Severus' mouth tugged into a smirk as she struggled to avoid staring at the scar of the Mark. She thought she was being subtle in her covert glances to his forearm as she examined his chest, the mended ribs, the healing lacerations – but the constant flicker of her focus from the point of interest to the fading Dark Mark was more than conspicuous. And it was amusing.

When she finally finished her examination, she brought a chair to his bedside. Her eyes flickered over his countenance, studying his features as though she would never see him again. Had he been a younger man, falling under the scrutiny of an attractive woman may have caused him unease; but Severus, a man of forty-three, found her constant gaze less flustering and more vexatious. Warranted as it may have been – he had played his part well, and she believed him to have been dead for six years, after all – it was still irksome.

She finally lowered herself into the chair, her chin resting in her palm as she leaned on the edge of his bed. Her head turned to the side, a curious habit he had noticed when she had been his student – the prognosis that she was about to ask a question. Her incessant interrogation was rather irksome, too.

"How long are you going to continue without speaking?" The change in her expression betrayed her, and without having to perform Legilimency on her he knew what she was thinking: Why would you ask a man who will not speak how long he would keep from speaking?

The corner of his mouth tugged slightly, enough that she would register the sardonic smirk. _You are safer this way, Ms. Granger._ Turning from her, he looked out the window. The sun was slowly setting beyond the trees, the sky painted with yellows and oranges and reds. Her curiosity would be her demise; it was only fitting she owned a cat as a pet. If she did not know, she could not be forced to tell. It was bad enough she already suspected him – to know for certain would guarantee her endangerment.

And Severus Snape did not spend six years protecting that troublesome, irresponsible boy and his insufferable friends only for her to allow her need to know absolutely _everything_ earn her a malicious beating and merciless slaughter at the hands of his obliviously faithful followers in search of information.

She released a frustrated sigh – the kind that escaped her whenever she had to explain a particularly difficult concept to her dense friends. The familiarity of her mannerisms caused a small, nostalgic smile to cross his face. At least some things hadn't changed.

"I will find out either way, you know. I'm a very clever witch, or so I'm told." Her voice carried with it that certain bossy tone that he had grown so weary of as her teacher. Vaguely, he recalled the plethora of times she had argued with him during class, often times proving a very valid point – not that he would have given her the satisfaction.

_Very clever, indeed, Ms. Granger._ A chuckle escaped him, pleasant only until his throat felt like it was closing, a raspy cough forcing itself through his lungs. Grasping at his chest with his hand, he tried to force air into his chest, but it only aggravated his cough. A feeling of panic began to overwhelm him, his inability to breathe only exacerbated by the constricting feeling around his chest. As though that blasted serpent had coiled herself around his abdomen, squeezing him tightly and ceasing all bodily function, he felt as though his lungs were crushing inward under the pressure of his bones.

An icy goblet was presented before him, his hands closing over hers as she helped him drink the water. Finally, he was able to breathe, and as she pulled the goblet from his lips he gulped for air. His eyes were watery and he leaned back into the pillows, his waifish chest, ribs pressing against his flesh, expanded with his greedy breaths for air.

The feeling of panic quickly faded and as he looked at her, her concerned brown eyes searching his face for a sign, a signal – he felt strange. Staring at her, he felt… warm. A feeling that was completely foreign to him, a feeling that he had not experienced in many, many years. The past seven years of his life had been so cold, so desolate of any kindness, any concern – from the moment he did as Albus had asked him, he had been thrown into a world of hatred, of deception, of cold.

"What is it?" she was leaning in close to him, the smell of her fragrance teasing his senses. She pressed her fingers against his throat, and he knew she was checking his pulse – she was probably concerned he was experiencing an arrhythmia or worse.

Moistening his dry lips with his tongue, he tried to speak. His voice was so dry, so sore, that it was as though the words were stuck. Clearing his throat, Severus tried again, and finally, a breathy word pressed passed his lips, aggravating his already sore throat. "…thank…"

As though she couldn't believe he would, in his sane mind, actually offer her any expression of gratitude, she pressed the back of her hand against his forehead. But then, was she so wrong in doing so? Severus Snape, offering thanks to a student – or anyone at all? He would have laughed if his previous chuckle hadn't erupted into a very uncomfortable situation. The feeling of panic was still very real to him, and he was not looking forward to having to experience that again.

Her hand abandoned his forehead and she touched two of her fingers to his throat. Her eyes fell to her watch, and Severus turned away to watch the quickly darkening sky. Just beyond the horizon, the sky was fading orange from deep navy blue. Briefly, he wondered how long she normally worked at the hospital; she had been there all day, hadn't she? How long had he slept after she left?

"Are you at least going to tell me your name?"

_No._

She seemed to be giving him some time to consider his answer, as though something would have changed since the last time she pressed the question. Her earlier proclamation that he was a "hero" was touching indeed, though futile. She mumbled a thoughtful "Hm."

"I understand." He heard the whisper of fabric, and suddenly she was pressing something cool into his palm. "I know you're familiar with this."

As she pulled her hand away from his, he curiously studied the Galleon she placed there. When he looked up at her, she wore a proud smile, her amber eyes glittering in the candlelight. "It's fake. I've charmed it with a Protean charm. If you need me, just use it and I will be here as soon as I possibly can."

Lowering his gaze to the coin in his hand, he examined it with an air of intrigue. She was right; he was quite familiar with such cleverness. He had suspected that the coins of "Dumbledore's Army" – of which, many he had confiscated during his classes – had been charmed by one certain clever Gryffindor Muggleborn. He had been impressed then, especially when the serial number around the edge had transformed into the next meeting's time. He closed his hand around the coin and nodded to her, a small smile flickering across his features.

"If I can't make it immediately, the serial number around the edge here" – her fingers curled around his and opened his hand gently, pointing to the edge of the coin – "will change to the time I estimate I will arrive."

_Very good, Ms. Granger._ There was always a certain gratification to be held when a student proved their teacher wrong. Severus had always known Hermione Granger was an intelligent and skilled witch, but he always believed that her associations would doom her to failure. Especially when it became apparent she was quite smitten with the Weasley boy – perhaps a talented Quidditch Keeper, but thick as a troll.

There were very few instances where Severus was wrong, and even fewer instances when he would enjoy being wrong. And her surviving cleverness was indeed one of those instances. In spite of himself, a subtle smile flickered across his features. It was not unnoticed by his Healer, whose breast might have visibly swelled with her own pride.

"It's identical to the method Dumbledore's Army congregated in my fifth year at Hogwarts," she said coolly, as though she were openly brandishing her certainty of his identity. It was actually a fairly innocuous gesture: if he were in fact her former Potions professor, he would immediately recognize what she was speaking of; and if he wasn't, well – "Dumbledore's Army" may have been a fairly alarming euphemism had he been a Ministry official several years ago, but now? It was about as distressing as "Lord Voldemort." The irony was not lost on him, and he smirked.

Curling his fingers around the coin, he nodded and turned to face the window. _A very clever witch, indeed, Ms. Granger. Ten points._ He heard the door close quietly, and he was, once again, alone.

Gingerly, he turned onto his side, facing the window. The silence weighing in around him was exhausting; the only thing more tiresome was her constant inquiries. Yawning, Severus allowed his eyes to flicker closed, vaguely aware of the cavernous growling of his stomach. He began regretting discarding the meal menu earlier.

_Severus crept quietly along the sidewalk in the dark. The streetlights flickered, the moon offering more illumination than their failing bulbs. As he walked, his boots kicked crispy leaves and broken twigs, his long cloak sweeping against the sidewalk and dragging the debris behind him. He crossed paths with an animal of some species; it hissed as he approached, and as he drew his illuminated wand, it skittered away, its claws scratching against the concrete walkway. _

_The house of his target; it was dark except for one room. The soft light created a glowing aura of gold outside the window. A fleeting feeling of frustrated anger washed over him, but he had seen the man out with another individual not even an hour previous. There was no way he was home yet – and even if he was, as long as he was alone, Severus could ensure success. His heart was racing, but Severus silently swept up to the door, holding his wand close to the lock. _

_"_Alohamora_," he whispered, hardly expecting success._

_He was reasonably surprised when the he heard a quiet click. Turning the doorknob, he gently pushed open the door. An awful squealing creak violated the silence, and Severus quickly activated a silencing charm on the door hinge. _

_"_Nox_," he whispered, and the light from his wand died away._

_As he stepped into the house, his heavy boots clunked against the wooden floor. He would have rolled his eyes in aggravation had the circumstance been less dire. Behind him, the door quietly closed and locked. Activating the same silencing charm on his feet, he moved further into the house, carefully studying the room. His eyes were quickly adapting to the fathomless darkness, and the obstacles in the room – a couch, an arm chair, an oversized television, among other objects – were becoming more than just silhouettes. _

_Moving towards the hallway, Severus sought the room in which he'd wait until the house's inhabitant returned home. There was a faint yellow light coming from the hallway, and as he turned into it, he noticed the thin beam of light beneath a closed door. He cautiously approached the door, his wand raised and ready to attack. With a flick of his wrist, the door burst open._

_He released a relieved sigh when all he encountered was a dingy bathroom. Still, ever vigilant, he searched it quickly, before closing the door once more and tucking away in the master bedroom. _

_He was tracking Rodolphus Lestrange, a strangely elusive – albeit very dangerous – former Death Eater and Bellatrix Lestrange's widower. He had been presumed incarcerated, and how the officials at Azkaban failed to notice his absence in their cells was beyond him; but then again, the Azkaban officials were as mindless as those that worked at the Ministry. Perhaps it wasn't so remarkable. _

_Despite his pure-blood status, which admittedly garnered him less renown since the fall of Voldemort, he was residing in a fairly decrepit neighborhood in an even more dilapidated house. The structure was upright, certainly, but from Severus' daylight investigation, done under the cover of Polyjuice and the stray hair of a Muggle living nearby, he was a bit concerned with just how long the building would remain standing. _

_There was a boisterous group of men crawling down the sidewalk outside, and Severus could hear their rowdy conversation through the open window of the bedroom. Quickly, he concealed himself from sight with a disillusionment charm. The obnoxious squeal of the rusty door hinges betrayed the man as he entered the house, and with a sudden feeling of unease Severus realized Lestrange was not alone—_

The quiet click of a woman's gentle step drew Severus from his dream. His eyes flickered open; the room was nearly pitch dark, and beyond the window, the starlit sky carried with it just whispers of clouds. There was a vicious wind blowing despite the peaceful semblance, the icy howling of the breeze leaking into the room.

Turning to peer over his shoulder, Hermione Granger came into his view. Curiously, he watched her as she leaned against the foot of his bed, gingerly turning onto his back. He knew it had to be late, and yet she was still in the hospital – did she ever sleep? He wouldn't have been surprised, given her study habits during school.

"I'm going to stay in the next room over, if you need anything. I didn't want to be too far away should something happen."

His curiosity waned as she spoke, and he simply nodded in response. Her dedication to her work was far from surprising, though he wondered what value she would be to him if she were exhausted and overworked tomorrow morning. Vaguely, he pondered if she realized she was no longer under constant threat of less-than-pristine grades.

"I don't understand why you won't talk," her voice was soft, almost childlike, and as she chewed her lip in quiet contemplation, her eyes flickered over his face in the darkness of the room. "But I do understand that it is going to take some time to earn your trust."

_You foolish girl. I regret my generosity earlier. You lose ten points._ He turned from her, his gaze lingering on the night sky once more.

She bid him a good night and left the room, and he was once more surrounded by the impossible silence of the room. Quietly, he cursed her, her incessant curiosity and desire to know absolutely _everything_ the one trait that both charmed him and irked him. Her inquisitiveness, something he should never discourage (but often times did), was going to get him killed – or worse, her.

If he had the strength, he would have Disapparated from the hospital the moment she had closed the door. Even if he splinched himself in the process, it would have been a more favorable circumstance than her blood on his hands.

* * *

><p>When Severus woke the following morning, there was an absolutely appalling taste in his mouth and the hollowed shell of his stomach was painful. Rubbing the sleep (and several gobs of crusted debris) from his eyes, he stifled a yawn in the crook of his elbow. The movement of his shoulder and arm caused him to wince, an intense ache in the sinewy muscles of his shoulders and arms. Moving his long legs, Severus noticed a similar soreness in his thighs and calves.<p>

Surely Granger would invade the room soon to continue her irritating quest of obtaining information about his identity; perhaps she would have with her an analgesic. Or a muscle relaxant. Anything to ease the discomfort that plagued him. Tipping his head back against his pillow, he craned his neck, the same deep ache extending from his shoulders to the base of his skull. He needed to vacate the bed, stretch his aching limbs, but the tingling in his toes was indication enough that he was not ready for that.

Sighing, he stared out the window, the pale blue sky littered with wispy white clouds, the songs of birds leaking in though the window. With a soft whisper, the window opened slightly, and a pleasantly cool breeze swept into the room. The stale air of the hospital room, which smelled vaguely of sickness, dust, and an odd smell Severus couldn't quite identify, became perfumed with the scent of fresh air, mowed grass, and blossoming flowers. His lip curling in a sneer, Severus suspected the pleasant smells were the effect of a charm of some sort; the hospital was located in the middle of London, and it was needless to mention that London was _not_ famous for its abundance of greenery.

There was a quiet knock at the door, but Severus didn't respond – had she expected him to, he would begin questioning just how clever Granger truly was. A man who would not speak would not answer the door verbally. Beyond the privacy curtain, the latch of the door clicked, and he heard her soft footsteps enter the room.

"Good morning," she said cordially.

Turning his attention to her, Severus' eyes flickered to the newspaper in her hand. He offered her a nod in greeting, and she waved the paper in her hand.

"I didn't know if you'd be interested, but I brought you the paper." She came to his bedside, leaving the folded paper beside his leg. "I need to examine you, but before I do, is there anything I can get for you? Do you need to use the loo?"

Severus had ignored his body's natural forces since the moment he was admitted, and despite his lack of sustenance and infrequent drinks, he became unpleasantly aware of the fullness of his bladder. Frowning, he nodded to her, hoping she would allow him to handle the task himself. She smiled, a pretty smile that was quite pleasant to see – and despite himself, Severus thought fleetingly of Lily Evans – she moved to his bedside table and removed a long plastic container.

"I don't suppose I need to show you how to use this," she said, handing it over to him. Severus held the urinal in his hands, his eyes flickering over the meter on the side, measuring the container's contents. "I'll be on the other side of the curtain."

She moved around the curtain, drawing it a little further to provide him with the most privacy she could offer. He stared at the urinal for a moment, his brow furrowing in a combination of emotions; frustration that he was reduced to pissing in a bottle, shame because he couldn't make it to a lavatory to receive himself in the way he was accustomed, and anger that he was so dependent on a woman he had tormented the entire time she knew him.

Turning down the covers, Severus positioned himself within the container, relieving his body of its waste with several grunts and groans as he did so. The movement of his body caused him pain, but the pressure of his extended bladder was more uncomfortable than any aching joints or muscles he may have suffered. As he finally finished, he removed himself from the urinal, drawing his robe back over his groin, and covering himself with the blanket. His aching muscles groaned with use, and as he adjusted his position in the bed, he became woefully aware of the surge of pain that shot through his spine.

Once Granger rounded the curtain once more, she smiled kindly at him and retrieved the urinal, tapping it with her wand. It vanished, replaced by an empty receptacle, and she placed it on the bedside table. Pulling on a pair of gloves, she began her examination, her warm hands soothing to the aching, ropy muscles of his body.

Her fingers edged into the healing lacerations, and Severus winced; he narrowed his eyes in a scowl, but she wasn't paying him any mind. Turning from her, he stared out the window, the wispy clouds drifting along lazily as the wind carried them to the east. He felt a cool whisper of air brush against his chest as she removed his gown, rolling it down to his lap. Her warm hands were now exposed to him, and her palms smoothed over his waifish chest, and Severus felt strangely self-conscious of his withered form. He tried to focus on the sky outside, but it was becoming more and more difficult.

She drew in a sharp gasp, and Severus looked at her in alarm. Her eyes were fixated on his chest, and with a foreboding feeling, he followed her gaze; the silvery scar that traced his sternum, the only remnants of a vicious stabbing he fell victim to over twenty years ago as a young Death Eater. Her forehead was wrinkled with a furrowed brow, and suddenly, Severus understood. He understood why she reacted in such a way, why she was so focused on the mark on his chest. Twelve centimeters; it would be very distinguishable, a confirmation of identification, nearly as clear as a tattoo. It wasn't often someone endured a wound like that, and if she had found his records – if he had any remaining, he wasn't sure – it would have been noted.

_Damn it, girl. Can you never settle with ignorance?_

Finally, she looked up at him, her hands moving from his chest to the ribbon of his gown. She tied it loosely around his neck, turning from him once he was covered and emptying her pockets of the vials she carried. His dark eyes watched her closely, reading her face as though it were an open book; if she had any doubt remaining last evening, it was dismissed entirely.

She held up a small ampoule with a yellow liquid, swirling the jar in her fingers. "This will begin to heal your heart. I need you to drink all of it, and I warn you now, it isn't exactly palatable."

If it was as he suspected, "not exactly palatable" was not an accurate description. Alastor Moody often compared the taste of vile liquids – such as Polyjuice Potion, for example – to goblin piss, and even that did not even begin to capture just how foul the potion was. Taking it from her, Severus steeled himself. He was accustomed to swallowing the most offensive of concoctions, but never on an empty stomach.

What was more intimidating was the somatic reaction he knew he'd experience as soon as the potion settled in his stomach. Sometimes, his intimate knowledge of alchemy seemed to be a damning thing; knowing too much about the effects of potions may be beneficial in some circumstances, but like now, it was more a curse. His stomach was churning violently in her apprehension.

Taking a deep breath, he choked down the potion, his face twisting into an awful grimace. The distaste quickly subsided as the crushing feeling leapt upon him. Clutching at his chest, his lungs desperately trying to fill with air but managing only the smallest of raspy breaths, Severus felt the beads of sweat freckle his forehead and chest. His heart felt as though it was going to cease beating, the gargantuan force of a giant's hand crushing the organ. His body forced him upright of its own accord, his hands grasping at his throat and chest, gasping for air, the pathway to his lungs seemingly shrinking to an impossible size. He couldn't breathe enough air, he couldn't breathe enough air—

As soon as it struck, it passed, and Severus collapsed into the pillows of his bed. His emaciated chest heaved with panting breaths, the feeling of oxygen filling his lungs nearly orgasmic after just having suffocated. He became aware of a warm pressure against his thigh; small, gentle fingers squeezing reassuringly and with sympathy.

"I don't like to mention it mimics a heart attack," Granger offered with an apologetic smile. "It's much more difficult to administer it when the patient is so apprehensive of dying. Though – I'm sure you knew that, given you didn't actually protest during the throes."

If she had honestly believed otherwise, he would have requested another Healer, one who did not underestimate his abilities. Though, given her belief that he had been dead for the past six years, he already knew she did not give him credit where it was due. A scowl crossed his features as he glared at her, and he turned his eyes to the second vial, filled with a vivid blue solution.

"Ah," she followed his gaze, lifting the vial into her hands and swirling it around. "This is the second dose. To be taken in an hour. And this" – she held a vial with green solution inside – "addresses the problems with the rest of your organs."

Humoring her, he lifted his chin in a slight acknowledgement, and then he focused on the morning's _Daily Prophet_. Spreading it open in his lap, he began to scan the headlines for anything of interest, mostly pertaining to the target he failed to terminate.

"I wanted to inform you that I am bound by confidentiality laws. If… if you so desired, I wouldn't even be able to change the name on the chart. You would continue to be patient" – she reached across his bed to the folder at the foot – "zero two three dash ten." There was an air of uncertainty in her voice, something she had come to express whenever she spoke out of turn in his class.

An eyebrow arched in piqued curiosity, he turned towards her. Was she suggesting that she would continue to deceive her colleagues and superiors for his sake? She had not the slightest idea why he was concealing his identity from the hospital, despite the fact that his lack of medical history could, in all actuality, impede his recovery. He obviously made his fair share of enemies, if he had been transferred to the hospital with such malicious injuries.

Perhaps it was due to those obvious facts that she was so willing to continue his charade. Intrigued, he folded his hands atop the newspaper, turning his full attention to her. She did not miss the sudden change in his mood.

Her voice was rushed as she spoke, as though she was simultaneously afraid of her confession all the while being too honest not to divulge to him. "I also reviewed the file of whom I believe you to be."

_You bloody belligerent, insufferable know-it-all. You haven't changed in the slightest._ As she spoke, his heart may as well have ceased beating. He felt his features transform, just briefly, into an alarmed expression, his eyebrows furrowing and a flash of concern in his fathomless eyes. He understood why she knew to look for the scar on his chest. Forcing an emotionless mask, he simply stared at her, willing away the churning in his stomach. He had worked in the shadows for six years, having convinced the world that he was dead. She would not ruin all he had worked for because she could not bear the thought of not knowing _everything_.

"It is rather bare, as well," she said, nodding to the file in her lap. "But it makes note of two particularly distinctive marks. And no, not the Dark Mark," she paused, her gaze flickering to the scar on his forearm, "but those."

She leaned over him, the folder in her hands resting on the edge of the bed. As she drew closer, her hands touching his chest, she traced the line of the scar along his sternum and the one above his nipple. Her scent was intoxicating, and as much as he hated to admit that her proximity was affecting him, he couldn't help the feeling of warmth that washed over him in that moment. _Depraved fool_. He thought bitterly to himself, the scent of her fading fragrance and the smell of her sweat, faint and not unpleasant, lingering in the air between them. His eyes fell from her face to the neck of her robes, modest and yet teasingly revealing; his gaze traced her subtly exposed cleavage as she leaned over him. He breathed in deeply, savoring the smell of the woman near him, before remembering just what it was she was telling him.

The feeling of warmth faded fast and suddenly he felt incredibly frustrated. Lack of human interaction for six years was no excuse for allowing his emotions, pathetic and profligate, to overwhelm his rational thought. She was nothing more than the insufferable know-it-all that proved quite valuable to Potter's survival and success, and even as a young woman, successful and talented Healer as she was – she was not an object to be coddled, nor cherished. She was a barricade to his task, and her desperate desire to learn his identity would be their doom.

But if what she said was indeed true, and she could neglect to change his file name, then perhaps it would not be so detrimental. Perhaps then he could entertain the idea of hearing his name on the lips of an individual who did not seek to harm him – a person who would say his name, holding it safe in her mouth as though it were a precious treasure—

_Fuck it all._ He released a resigned sigh. _You idiot girl, you're going to get me killed._

She slowly lowered herself into the chair once more, firmly clutching the file to her lap. Her amber eyes were wide as she held his stare, and he detected just the subtlest of tremors in her hands. He looked to the door, the quiet click of the lock ensuring their privacy. As he turned his attention back to her, her eyes were wider still, if it were possible; her eyebrows nearly vanished into her hairline. The subtle tremor in her hands had become violent, and she pressed her closed fists into the tops of her thighs, trying to force them to be still.

Her trepidation in his presence was certainly welcome. Even in his frailty, he made her nervous, and he cherished it. He cleared his throat. "Yes…Granger." The words were difficult to force through his raw throat; his gravelly, raspy voice nearly painful as it vibrated against the hypersensitive tissue. His broken sentences were almost as grating to his sensibility as his voice was to his throat. "But… mustn't say… word."

If she couldn't understand him, she would be forced to wait until he had the strength to form full sentences. Speaking required more of his energy than he wished to admit, his chest heaving with the effort. There was a metallic taste in his mouth, though he suspected he only imagined it; while he was no Healer, he didn't believe the mere act of speaking could cause one's throat to erupt into bleeding.

Her eyes widened impossibly as she listened to him, her eyebrows riding further and further up her forehead with each whispered syllable. Her jaw hung slightly open, her lips parted in a silent gasp. "But – you're—"

_A hero. Of course._ "It… irrelevant." Water. He needed water. The gravel in his voice was nearly choking him, his throat burning with the irritated tissue. He knew if he didn't wet his mouth, he would erupt in a coughing fit. "Water…"

Frantically, she conjured a goblet full of water, lifting the cup to his lips. He drank and drank, his thirst seeming impossible to quench. His throat was beyond repair, it seemed, the burning sensation continuing to scratch at the tissue, the threat of a hacking cough looming ever closer.

Finally, after what seemed like a gallon full of icy water, Severus pushed her hands from his mouth. She lowered herself into the chair, and Severus winced as his head began to throb, the surge of ice water inspiring a vicious headache. Fleeting though it was, it only exacerbated the pain elsewhere in his body, and he scowled.

Her eyes were still carefully focused on his face, the same look of amazement glittering in the depths of her eyes. "But how?"

He would have laughed if his throat weren't burning so badly. She clearly doubted his skill as a wizard, and had he cared, he may have actually been insulted. An accomplished Potions Master and talented duelist, meeting his demise against a predictable wizard? _Ms. Granger, one does not survive for seventeen years feigning loyalty to the darkest wizard of the ages without learning how he thinks. _

Clearing his throat, he swallowed hard before speaking. The words still scratched at the sensitive membrane, the tissues irritated and his voice raspy and broken. "Did you… think that I… wouldn't… come prepared… that morning?"

The look on her face granted him the satisfaction he was seeking. She looked completely puzzled, her body leaning towards him as she sought support from the arms of the chair. She had believed him to be dead for six years, having witnessed his exsanguination – her shock was warranted, but it was entertaining nonetheless.

"Pre—what do you mean?" she stammered. Stuttering was very unbecoming of her, and he was not ashamed to admit he was really relishing her stupefaction. Hermione Granger was rarely speechless, and though he had not been her teacher in seven years, it was still gratifying to have left her at a complete loss for words or intelligent thought. Her hands were trembling violently, no matter how tightly she gripped the arms of her chair.

Severus let his gaze pass over her, from her face to her chest to her white-knuckled grasp to her knees. Her entire posture was indicative of intent listening, absolute focus on his speech, as though missing a single word would mean her death.

"Granger… don't… give… enough credit… there are many… things I am… skilled…" His throat was scratchy and dry, and he reached for the goblet. She rose to assist him in drinking, and after a long and satisfying gulp, he leaned back into his pillow, his chest heaving. His lungs felt as though they would burst with the effort it required to speak, and he was quickly exhausting all of his resources.

He really needed a meal.

"What should I call you?" Granger asked, her voice trembling. As he surveyed her face, he noticed the tears brimming in her eyes.

"Anything but… my name," Severus managed, his exhaustion overwhelming him. He allowed his eyes to close, settling into the cushion of the pillows. Her frantic breathing was a melody to him in that moment, and as his raspy, ragged breaths began to slow, he felt himself drifting off.

* * *

><p>Hermione didn't leave Severus Snape's side that morning. He had dozed off, his head hanging to the side of his pillow, his shallow, rattling breaths heaving his emaciated chest. Fleetingly, she wondered if he had been brought any food.<p>

Severus Snape. Severus Snape. Severus Snape. As she stared at his withered countenance – barely a whisper of what it was when he di—when she thought he died – she kept repeating his name in her head. Severus Snape. Severus Snape. The swelling in his eye had gone down since yesterday, and as her eyes skimmed the visible portions of his body, the gently glowing wounds seemed thinner now, too.

Severus Snape. She could only tear her eyes from his face for a few seconds at a time. Her mind was whirling with the knowledge that she was in fact sitting across from the man who was perhaps responsible for the defeat of the most maniacal, evil wizard that had ever lived – who knew just how much he had assisted Harry in his quest. Her amber eyes were fixed on the distinguishing features of his face; the prominent cheekbones, the hooked nose – all things she had come to despise during her adolescence, and now she viewed with an odd sense of warmth, endearment. Severus Snape.

He inhaled deeply, releasing a long sigh, vacating his lungs of all the old air that had grown stale within him. His mouth smelled of sick, and she chastised herself for failing to clean his teeth yesterday. Another task to add to the list – along with getting the poor man a decent meal. She wondered if she would ever learn how he survived the ambush that should have claimed his life.

_Patience, Miss Granger._ She scolded in her head, his resonating, oily voice speaking the words.

Severus Snape. Turning towards the medicine cabinet, she lifted the second vial of blue solution into her hands. Pushing some stray strands of hair away from his face, she leaned in close to him.

"Sev," she whispered softly. "Wake up. I need to give you your next dose."

_"Sev, come _on_," she fisted her hands onto her hips, her chest broadened in an attempt to seem intimidating. "Give me my wand."_

_Severus smirked. "You'll have to get it, Lily!" and with a laugh, he tossed the wand up into the tree behind him. _

_"Sev!"_

_He laughed again, a delightful feeling filling his entire being, and he turned and grabbed tight to the limbs of the tree. With a final playful glance tossed over his shoulder at his friend, Severus launched himself upwards into its tangled branches. Higher and higher he climbed, Lily's disgruntled cries from below him charming him in a way only she ever could. _

_"Severus Snape, you get back down here right now!" she shouted, her small hands grasping onto the branches he had used to ascend the tree._

_"I think I'm going to make you come after me, Lily!" he replied, peering at her through a cluster of leaves. "If you ever want your wand back, you'll have to come get _me_, first!"_

_"Oh, you—" she began sputtering harmless threats, gently lifting herself onto the first layer of branches. Reaching up through the leaves, she squinted through the dirt and broken bark that sprinkled from Severus' foothold on a high branch. "Sev!"_

"Sev," Hermione said again, a little louder. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and she gently shook him. Her face was near his, her voice still soft, hesitant to startle him but knowing full well she would have to if he slept any deeper.

The heavy lids of his eyes slowly lifted, his dark eyes glossy and red. It took a moment for him to awaken, and as he raised his gaze to meet her, he seemed startled by her proximity. He pressed himself into his pillows, and Hermione recoiled in surprise.

"I didn't mean to startle you, I'm sorry," she whispered. "I need you to drink this. All of it."

Snape's eyes flickered from her face to the vial in her hand, and he grimaced. Pulling the ampoule out of her grip, he gulped it down, his face twisting with disgust. As though in anticipation, he placed his hands on his chest, staring at the blanketed mountains of his feet.

"There is no heart attack this time, I promise," Hermione offered, trying a small smile. She reached for the empty vial in his hand, her fingertips brushing against his gently as she took the glass from him.

His brow furrowed as he looked at her, wrinkles pressing themselves deeper into the weary flesh of his face. The shadows circling his eyes hadn't lightened any with rest, and Hermione frowned, her eyes scanning his features.

"Is there anything I can get for you?" she whispered, her fingers combing a stray strand of hair from his damp brow. "A cool cloth?"

Severus shook his head, his gaze wearily watching the movement of her hands, as though concerned for their intention. As she tucked the stray hairs behind his ears, Hermione couldn't help but wonder when he had last been handled gently, lovingly – or if he had only been on the receiving end of hateful contact. The thought chilled her and saddened her, and she tried to disregard it. Despite her emotional attachment to this man – and while she hated to admit it, he had evoked many an emotion within her in the six years as her pedagogue – she had a responsibility to see that he was properly – and professionally – cared for, her own personal needs disregarded.

"Food," he managed, his voice still weak. "Famished…"

Hermione nodded. "Of course. Do you have any preferences?"

"Something… edible."

She could have sworn a glimmer of a smile flickered across his face, but it was fleeting. She may have imagined it, but she found herself laughing at his blatant sarcasm. While he may still be the icy and unsociable man she remembered, his crass sarcasm was a welcomed gesture. It ensured that while many a thing had changed in the years he had been gone, some things would always remain the same, and there was a great comfort in that idea.

"I will have one of the nurses bring a plate of food to you," Hermione said, smiling. "If there's nothing else, I have a few other patients in need of my services. If you need anything," she touched the hand she had placed the fake Galleon in a day previous.

He simply nodded, turning from her to face the window. She followed his gaze, the diaphanous clouds gently breezing through the clear blue sky. Hermione may not have believed in the working of a Higher Power – she had seen far too much evil in her life to put much weight in any religion – but she couldn't help but ponder the curious workings of Fate.

* * *

><p>AN: Normally I shy away from the concept of repeating a story from the perspective of different characters, but I couldn't help but feel drawn to expressing Severus' point of view here. Considering he had been thought of as dead for the past six years, I thought having such a considerate human being taking care of him – especially one with which he was quite familiar – would evoke an interesting reaction. I hope you all agree.


	3. Chapter 3

Rating: M – inappropriate for readers under the age of 16; contains scenes of explicit sexuality and violence.  
>Disclaimer: Characters and settings ©J.K. Rowling.<p>

Author's Note: Again; thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you! I am truly touched by the overwhelming support I have received from each and every one of you. I am so appreciative you have stuck around through the alternate perspectives – I recognized that was indeed a fairly risky thing to do – and I hope you continue enjoying the story. Who knew a persistent thought (and stubborn refusal to believe Severus Snape would just _die_) could receive such an overwhelmingly wonderful reaction? Again, thank you all very much.

**Potions, Plans, and Second Chances**

K. Marie

**Chapter 3**

Hermione quietly closed the door of Snape's room, a heavy sigh escaping her as she leaned her weight against its sturdy support. Her hands smoothed over the cool, flat surface, and she breathed in deep, drinking in the stale, sterile hospital air. Her breast swelled as she sucked in as much oxygen that her lungs could contain, and then she released the hefty breath, the smell of coffee lingering in the air before her.

Combing her slender fingers through her hair, the ring on her finger caught in a tangle and tugged painfully at her scalp. She flinched, pulling her hand from the mass of hair, a few strands wrapped around the tiny gemstone of the engagement ring. Twisting the band around her finger, Hermione rested her head against the door, staring up at the ceiling, the only sound in the hallway her soft breaths.

Despite her own distress – the fact that her world, as she had known it, was dramatically altered and she wasn't sure if it was for better or worse – she had a responsibility to tend to the rest of her patients, all the while simultaneously providing Severus Snape private, completely solitary care. She eased herself onto her feet, casting a final glance over her shoulder at the solid white door to his room.

She forced her thoughts, her emotions – her questions – into a tiny corner of her mind to be dealt with much later. Perhaps he would entertain the idea of relaying his story to her; how he survived, where he had been the past six years, what earned him the injuries that kept him there. But for now, she knew she had a job to do, and she breathed in deep, steeling herself for the impossibly long day ahead of her.

Descending the stairs to her usual floor, Hermione found Gwen behind the nurse's station, sorting the folders of patients that had just been admitted to the hospital. As Hermione approached the station, the young nurse combed a stray strand of fiery hair behind her ear before pushing a tidy stack of charts into Hermione's arms.

"Rooms A-2, A-4, and A-10, Hermione," Gwen said before returning to her task. She hadn't even looked at Hermione, but familiar with the nurse's mannerisms, she disregarded it. An apprentice was at her elbow, hurriedly transcribing her notes into an open chart; he offered Hermione a pleasant smile, but it was brief, and he returned to his task of hurriedly scrawling notes with his quill.

"Gwen," Hermione said, having not forgotten the promise she made to her patient upstairs. The nurse looked up from her documentation, an annoyed glare burning in the depths of her icy eyes. She was not the most pleasant of witches to work with, and Hermione always tried to keep their conversations short. "Please see to it that a meal is brought to the John Smith in the isolation ward."

"Of course," Gwen replied shortly. "Anything specific?"

Hermione couldn't help the small smile that parted her lips as she thought of his response to her similar inquiry. Doubting Gwen would find any humor in the situation but feeling too mischievous to abandon the opportunity, Hermione replied with a sardonic tone: "Something edible."

The nurse-witch released an annoyed grunt and turned from the counter to prepare a request to the cafeteria for a meal. Hermione thought Snape would approve when his meal suddenly appeared at his bedside, further limiting his exposure to other witches and wizards at the hospital. The method of communication in the hospital was similar to that of the Ministry; if a message needed immediate conveying, a simple charm need be cast on a sheet of parchment folded neatly within a specific envelope; the letter then would fly itself to its recipient. Hermione had found the mode of communication rather clever and endearing, and had, on many occasions, been tempted to abuse it.

Hermione absently thanked the nurse-witch and moved into her office. Setting the folders onto her desk, she lowered herself into her chair. Drawing her fingers through her hair, Hermione quickly braided the mass of curls into a neat plait down her neck, securing it with a lime green ribbon. The coffee she had brewed earlier was cold, and she cursed the waste; but there was nothing to be done for it – she absolutely hated the taste of reheated coffee, regardless of its method of heating. Sipping from the cool mug, she peered at the open folder of the patient in room A-2, a young school-aged girl named Natalie Brown. She had been transferred from Hogwarts to St. Mungo's with a severely fractured pelvis, and as Hermione continued reviewing the admission notes, she smiled despite herself. A Quidditch accident.

As she stood from her chair, the chart folded against her chest, she set the mug on her desk and swept in the direction of the patient's room. Hermione held Hogwarts' resident medi-witch in very high esteem; Poppy Pomfrey was partially responsible for Hermione's current success. During Hermione's time in university, Poppy Pomfrey opened a year-long apprenticeship position for the Healer-in-training; for her second year at school, Hermione was enrolled in the apprenticeship, and the experience certainly bolstered her reputation among the officials at the hospital. Between her experience at Hogwarts and the time she spent beneath the feet of the Healers at St. Mungo's during Ron's admission, she had garnered herself remarkable notoriety, and it helped her greatly.

As it was, Hermione was notably more skilled than Poppy – and to the surprise of no one. A pelvic fracture, a considerably serious injury in the Muggle world, was in all actuality fairly harmless for a Healer as capable as Hermione was. She wasn't surprised that the young witch was transported to the hospital, given Poppy's vigilance and prudence – she was not one to risk the health and well-being of a student lightly, and if she so much as suspected a wound beyond her skill, she would move the student to St. Mungo's for care.

Rapping her knuckles lightly against the door, Hermione waited a brief moment before cracking open the door. She was greeted immediately by a heated argument between an older man and woman, flanking either side of the hospital bed. The young girl assigned to Hermione's care sat against the headboard of the bed, and as soon as she noticed Hermione, she offered the woman an apologetic glance.

The adults – presumably Natalie's parents – were apparently quarreling over her care at the hospital. Opening the folder in her hands, Hermione scanned the admission file; it came to her attention that Natalie was a Muggleborn, and her parents' unrest was most likely due to their unfamiliarity with wizarding medicine. Normally, such a distinction wouldn't be necessary, but with anxious parents, a wise Healer always ensured familiarity with wizarding medicine.

Either way, the adults continued arguing, the volume of their voices continuing to amplify with each passing second. Clearing her throat, Hermione hoped to politely interrupt them, but to no avail; she may as well have not even been in the room. Judging by the intonation of their voices, Hermione suspected they had divorced ages ago.

"Good morning," Hermione interrupted, forcing pleasantness into her voice despite her need to raise her voice to be heard over their shouts.

Natalie's parents finally turned their attention to the younger witch, standing in her lime green Healer robes. The woman's face flushed as she acknowledged her audience, but the man's anger did not seem to abate at her presence. He crossed his arms over his chest, his brown eyes fixed in an angry glare at the intruding witch.

"I'm Hermione Granger," she began. "I'm the Healer overseeing Natalie's care today."

"How old are you?" the man hissed, rounding the bed to stand before her. He was significantly taller than Hermione, and she was forced to lift her chin to look into his eyes, but he failed to intimidate her.

"Twenty-four," Hermione replied. "I understand you are Muggles, so I must seem awfully young to be responsible for your daughter's care. But I can assure you, I am more than qualified to mend her fractured pelvis."

Hermione had grown accustomed to irate parents; it was simply involved in the care of the ill. Children were often times awkward, elephantine, and prone to injury, and while parents often worried about their child's care in the hands of a Healer so young, Hermione was usually able to ease their concerns. If she was unable to dismiss their fears ("But you can't possibly know what you're doing, you don't look a day over eighteen!" "Have you even graduated from Hogwarts?"), she typically silenced them with her agile wristwork, mending severe scrapes, healing ghastly burns, and setting shattered bones; all within minutes, and without much exertion. And the child was on their way.

This situation would be no different, and as she sat discussing the treatment plan with the worried parents – her parents were entirely unfamiliar with the ways of wizarding medicine (and that treatment plans were typically unnecessary) – she leaned over Natalie, administering the medication that would aid in the mending of her pelvis before silently casting the healing charm. With a loud crack, the girl cried out in agony – and her parents reacted with fury and surprise – and the bones were set. All amidst an unnecessary (however expected) conversation with them, debating Hermione's credentials and capability to handle the injury adequately.

Of course, Natalie's father began demanding answers why his daughter was clutching at her hip, sobbing hysterically. Hermione, while administering an analgesic to lessen the girl's pain, explained the process of setting bones in the wizarding world: casts were often unnecessary, as there was a specific tincture developed for setting bones and strengthening the calcification that would form over the mended fracture. Resting would, however, be required to ensure complete healing, but often times even the amount of time that was necessary for inactivity was significantly shorter than in Muggle medicine. The only disadvantage, then, was the excruciating burst of pain the patient endured, but it was fleeting and manageable.

As she bid Natalie good afternoon and offered her a cheerful "Good luck" when returning to the Quidditch pitch in a week, Hermione vacated the room with a feeling of gratification swelling her chest. Even though she knew she was the best Healer the hospital staffed, it was never a hindrance to her ego when she left the doubtful family of her patients in awe.

* * *

><p>The rest of her morning, fortunately, involved two adult wizards; adults of her own world (Hermione had truly ceased relating to the Muggle world once she had embarked on their quest to hunt horcruxes) were much easier to work with. They tended to be less inquisitive and more confident in Hermione's skill to tend to their injuries.<p>

As midday approached, Hermione was strangely inspired to take her lunch to Snape's room, if only to provide the saturnine man company – without performing medical procedures. She wasn't certain what such an inclination would gain her or whether he would even welcome the idea in the first place; but having spent the majority of his first two days at the hospital in isolation, she was compelled to provide him a visitor.

Descending the long, twirling staircase to the cafeteria, Hermione tugged her fingers through her messy braid, curls of hair having come loose throughout the morning. Turning her back to the entrance doors to the dining hall, she used her rear to push open the door while simultaneously tying her hair into a tight, neat knot at the back of her head. The mingling scent of various meats, vegetables, and baked goods greeted her nostrils, and her stomach reacted; churning and clenching painfully, Hermione sheepishly recalled missing breakfast.

A house elf behind the counter scrambled onto a stack of cookbooks to greet Hermione; she was one of the first patrons of the cafeteria, lunch hour having just begun, but she knew the cortege of hungry hospital workers and visitors would soon follow. The elf, his raggedy dish cloth hanging loosely around his hips like a loin cloth, leaned an ear towards Hermione to hear her order.

Looking at the menu behind the counter, animated photographs of each meal special were charmed to sizzle, drip, and steam accordingly. Touching her forefinger to her chin thoughtfully, Hermione considered her options – she hadn't the slightest idea what Severus Snape preferred to eat, but her maternal instinct, no doubt inspired by a certain Weasley matriarch, dominated her practicality and she was suddenly tempted to bring an entire buffet to his room in order to flesh out his form.

Filing her order with the little elf behind the counter and the room which to send it, Hermione turned on her heel and abandoned the cafeteria before the stampede of hungry patrons arrived. Climbing the stairs, her hand cupping her flat abdomen, her stomach growled and churned within, anxious for its first full meal of the day.

It didn't occur to her until she reached the solid white door of Severus Snape's room that he may very much prefer the quiet solitude of his isolation room. Feeling suddenly weary of his austere personality, she nearly changed her mind; the painful churning of her empty stomach, however, steeled her nerves and she gently knocked on the door, a quiet announcement to her entrance.

"I hope you're hungry," Hermione offered as she closed the door behind her, the patient concealed behind the privacy curtain. "And I hope you don't mind company for your lunch. I have to administer your midday potions, but then I'm on my lunch break."

As she rounded the curtain, he became visible to her. The head of his bed was elevated and as he sat in his bed, the newspaper she provided him that morning was opened in his lap. His fingertips were black from ink, and as he looked up at her with an acknowledging nod, she noticed an inky darkness surrounding his eye. She stifled a quiet laugh.

Summoning a cloth from the bathroom, Hermione moistened it with warm water in the basin on his table. Snape eyed her suspiciously as she leaned down to him, gently rubbing the ink stain from his skin. She held the stained cloth for him to see, and his lip curled in a sneer before returning to the newspaper.

"Are there any magazines you subscribe to? I can have the issues forwarded here for the time being," Hermione suggested as she foraged through the medicine cabinet for his prescribed potions. "There's an owlery on the top floor of the hospital."

He released a thoughtful groan, his dark eyes still scanning the newspaper absently. As he turned the page, the rustle of paper violated the silence in the room, and as though he seemed weary of rereading the same words once more, he finally folded the paper and set it on his bedside table. Hermione cast a glance over her shoulder as she prepared his analgesic.

"Is that a 'yes,' then?" she asked, a hidden smile crossing her features.

Turning towards him, her green robes whispering against her body, Hermione held a goblet in her hands. As she leaned into him, her hands guiding the goblet to his lips, the stale scent of his body – not dissimilar to the smell of the dying, which she found alarming – invaded her senses. The grimace that twisted her features was not lost on him, and he frowned.

"Never you mind that, Sev," Hermione said quietly, turning to the table and retrieving the small ampoule she had set there earlier in the morning. "This is going to feel like the worst cramping you've ever endured, but it's fleeting and will leave you quite famished."

Lifting the small vial to his lips, Severus swallowed the thick potion, grimacing as the solution slid down his throat. Hermione lowered herself into the chair, extending her hand to his supportively. For a moment, he simply stared at her, an odd expression crossing his features; as soon as the first wave of agony struck him, though, he grabbed hold of her hand, his strong grasp crushing her hand, as though the pain he was enduring would be less if she experienced it with him. He curled onto his side, tucking his face into his knees as his entire body contracted with such force he feared he would tear in two. A tiny groan escaped him as the strictures worsened, his grip on Hermione's hand ever tightening. She too, winced in pain, his strength causing her to writhe from her chair, nearly collapsing on the floor.

Once his pain subsided, the force with which he squeezed her hand weakened. Hermione pulled herself to her feet, resting on her heels as she peered over the edge of his bed, her chin supported by the soft mattress. He slowly elongated his form, stretching his long legs and tipping his chin to look at her, an apologetic grimace plaguing his features as he glanced to her small hand in his. She slipped her slender fingers from his grasp, sinking into the chair once more.

"It's quite all right. Now that you've endured that, the bone fragments that embedded in your other organs should begin dissolving and the wounds healing," she offered kindly, kneading her sore hand with her uninjured fingers. "Patients tend to feel as though inflicting pain helps lessen their own experience some, and I, for one, will not rob them of that. I understand, from my discussions with some older women I've administered that potion to, the pain associated with it is worse than labor."

He nodded, as though agreeing, and turned onto his back. In a quiet _pop!_, a small, narrow table of food appeared at the foot of the bed, startling the room's inhabitants. The smell of chicken permeated the room, and Hermione rose from the chair to retrieve one of the trays.

"I didn't know what you preferred to eat," she said softly, setting the tray across his lap and handing him eating utensils. "But I thought chicken was a safe start."

He hesitated before addressing the chicken breast on his plate, but after casting a glance at his Healer, he ravenously began carving. Hermione lifted the second tray and lowered herself into the chair once more, the platter resting against her thighs. His greedy devouring pleased her; his emaciated form had been distressing to Hermione, and as long as he was in the hospital she could ensure he received decent nutrition.

Picking at her own piece of chicken, Hermione cautiously eased into conversation. "Do you know where your wand is?" She lifted her eyes subtly as she spoke, peering at him. He seemed to hesitate before answering, his jaw grinding away at the bite he placed in his mouth as she spoke.

"No," he replied, his voice acerbic. He broke apart a biscuit in his tremulous hands, eyeing her carefully.

She realized with sudden dismay that despite his returning strength – and while he was still admittedly very weak, he was in much better condition than a day previous – it would be incredibly painful to draw conversation out of him. She had suspected from the moment she recognized him that he would be a trying patient, but Hermione Jean Granger was nothing if not ambitious – and she enjoyed a challenge.

"Is there any chance you'll enlighten me on what brought you to the hospital?" she asked, a slightly disinterested tone forced into her voice. She didn't look at him as she spoke; her eyes were fixed on her plate, and she casually diced apart a piece of carrot.

If he heard her, she wouldn't have known; he didn't even falter in his emphatic eating. He nearly shoveled the food into his mouth, and Hermione was woefully reminded of her fiancé; the only difference – that she could identify, anyway – was that it seemed unlikely that the man before her had the fortune of decent meals in a long while. Her eyes moved over his waifish form: his high cheekbones, which were always prominent throughout her schooling, now pressed through his face as though the flesh weren't even there; his skin was drawn, pallid and thin, over the bony, angular prominence of his sharp collarbones; the pulse coursing through his neck – right beneath the chilling scar from a puncture wound that should have claimed his life – shook the thin skin of his throat, and Hermione could see the subtle, quiet tremor as his heart pumped blood through his body. She made sure to acquire larger meals for him in the future, at least for the time being.

"It is… quite unlikely," he growled, his chest heaving with hungry breaths as he spoke. "It does not… concern you."

"On the contrary," Hermione countered. "You are my patient, and if there is a bounty on your head, I should know about it. I can keep you safe."

A rough, chilling sound escaped the sallow man, startling Hermione into action before she realized it was a laugh. With a goblet in her hand, Hermione had nearly knocked the tray of food from her lap; Snape's skeletal hand brushed her off, a dismissing wave, and he cleared his throat.

"Forgive me," he growled, a sibilant intonation haunting his raspy voice. "You… exaggerate your skill, Ms. Granger…"

"I beg to differ—"

"_On the contrary_," he mocked, his raspy breath barely managing its former oily resonation. "What events brought me here… you cannot even begin to… comprehend." Reaching for her hand, he wrapped his long fingers around the mouth of the goblet, drawing it to his mouth. He drank the icy water greedily, releasing a heavy sigh.

"You seem to forget what I witnessed before I even graduated Hogwarts," she replied, acrimoniously. "Harry may have been the one to defeat Voldemort, but I was invaluable to his success."

Her amber eyes narrowed as she studied his sallow features, her eyes tracing the angles of his countenance; the protuberant hook of his nose, the sharp edge of his jaw. He was in desperate need of a razor, the rough growth of a beard beginning to emphasize the already exaggerated prominence of his cheekbones as it blanketed his cheeks and throat.

"How honest you are," he replied coldly, his dark gaze flickering over her face. "However brilliant… you may be – and even I… cannot deny such – you have never learned… when to mind your own business."

He brought another piece of biscuit to his mouth, chewing it carefully as he studied her features. A faint wrinkle pressed itself into her forehead as she furrowed her brow, her fork stabbing absently at the diced carrot on her plate. Even though he was ashen and frail, he managed a sickeningly snide sneer, his thin, pallid lip curling. Hermione refused to allow him to frustrate her – which she recognized as his entire intention, despite his dependence on her – and instead, remained cool, breathing deep to steady her own flaring temper.

"You are conveniently forgetting that I am your Healer, and your health and survival – and identification – are entirely dependent on me," Hermione replied coolly, a small smile crossing her lips. "I could have easily formulated a dozen reasons why moving you to the isolation ward was dangerous. I could have also positively identified you as Severus Snape, former professor and headmaster of Hogwarts School."

Hermione stabbed with emphasis at a piece of chicken on her plate, chewing it thoroughly, the silence accentuating her point. "If you think for a moment my judgment would be questioned, you are sorely mistaken – I am the most capable Healer this hospital has employed." Turning her eyes to her plate, she sawed at the chicken breast. "My only obligation to you is to get you well again. Everything else?"

She raised her gaze to his, holding it steadily. His eyebrows were arched, exaggerating the deep creases of his forehead, and there was a subtle burning in his eyes, as though her audacity was unexpected, but far from unwelcome.

She offered him a small smirk, trying her best to mimic the sarcastic smile he always cast her, before she continued: "Everything else is a favor."

"Are you implying… your company is also a favor… Ms. Granger?"

"I certainly don't see anyone else flocking to your door to sit with you," Hermione replied sourly.

His game was not new, and she had long since learned how to handle an acerbic patient. Prejudice was still rampant in the world, and it was not unknown that Hermione Granger was a Muggleborn. She encountered many a pure-blood patient, and while it was not the majority, a fairly large proportion still held fast to the values of old. She was forced to lash with a waspish tongue when she was challenged by an acrimonious wizard, and often times, her sharp tongue – which she had learned from the best – garnered her more respect than her actual abilities.

And she knew Severus Snape was no different. He may be the Half-Blood Prince, but he was still a callous, distant, sarcastic man, and she had learned how to handle such a disposition.

"You are going to be here for awhile," Hermione said. "We can subscribe to any journals or magazines you prefer, but I would recommend developing an amicable relationship with the only individual in the hospital who is going to provide your care. Do remember – you requested this situation."

As his eyes moved over her face, he seemed to be regarding her with mild intrigue. For a moment, she held his gaze, her eyes tracing the fine lines framing his eyes, the shadows that surrounded the fathomless depths of black. Her heart yearned to care for him in a way she suspected he never experienced before – with compassion, empathy, affability – but only if he welcomed it. She knew, beneath his icy, apathetic façade, he was a man capable of intense love and dedication, and she thought for once in his life he deserved to be treated as the hero she knew he was.

But he would have to first accept her. Requesting she be the only one to treat him was merely a precaution; the fewer people to interact with him, the more likely his identity remain a mystery. She shrugged nonchalantly, lowering her attention once more to the rapidly cooling plate of food in her lap.

Silence swallowed them for several minutes; as Hermione's senses became habituated to the lingering scent of food in the room, she was able to distinguish the sickly smell emanating from Snape's frail body. The scent of the ill was something she never grew accustomed to, despite having worked in the hospital for several years. She suspected, too, that there was more reason behind his ill scent bothering her than just the fact that it was an unpalatable odor. Smell was a remarkable sense, able to rejuvenate the most degraded of memories. Often times Hermione would enter the apothecary in the basement, the scent of a damp stone walls inspiring a surge of memories to flood her mind from the many hours she spent in the dungeons at Hogwarts.

As Hermione leaned forward in her chair, her eyes studied the withered countenance of the man in the bed. She fought hard to recall the smell she had associated with him from her time at school; she could remember many a time he had leaned over her, criticizing her work – and while it was not a moment she recalled fondly – the scent that lingered in the air around him was not offensive; a faint combination of spices and herbs peppering the pleasant scent of the soap he used. It was a pleasing smell to recall, and such a stark, chilling contrast to the scent of death that lingered in the air now.

The quiet _clink_ of his silverware setting against his plate brought Hermione's attention to the present. Brandishing her wand, she tapped the plate and it vanished, along with hers and the table with which they came. Snape licked his lips, moistening them – and as she searched his face, she noticed how painfully chapped his thin lips were, and the sickly smell that accompanied his breath as he exhaled. She conjured a toothbrush and paste from the air, offering a kind smile to him.

"Here you are," she offered, allowing him to fix the utensil himself. She levitated a shallow basin below his chin for him to spit into, and as he scrubbed roughly at his teeth, she turned her attention to the window; it was a small gesture but it was all she could offer to grant him minimal privacy while he cleaned his mouth.

When he finally finished, he cleared his throat, drawing Hermione's attention to him once more. There was an ugly grimace on his face; Hermione suspected that, once again, his complete dependence on another human being left more of a foul taste in his mouth than the bile and blood that had stained his teeth.

"Another day or so," she said softly, and he turned to look at her. "As long as your wounds have healed adequately, we should be able to get you out of bed." With a tap of her wand, the basin was gone, and Hermione set his toothbrush and tube of paste on his bedside table. Pulling a pair of gloves from her pocket, she slipped them over her fingers and tugged gently at his modesty ribbon. "There are just a few remaining that are particularly worrisome."

As she rolled down his thin patient robe, her warm hands smoothed over his chest, the sparse, course black hair scratching against the thin material of her clean gloves. She gently fingered an open wound, ensuring the borders were intact and warm; the wound itself was emitting a soft golden glow, though dimmer than it was that morning. She knew before long she would have to administer another agonizing application of the healing potion – and she expected Snape was suspicious of such a fact as well. Her graceful, agile touch lingered along the other wounds that were still slowly healing; Snape released a quiet, wincing groan as she fingered the exposed, damaged flesh, but otherwise did not complain.

Discarding her gloves, Hermione fastened the ribbon behind his neck once more, smoothing her soft hand across his forehead and tucking some strands of black hair behind his ears. Her thumb brushed against the rough growth of his cheek, and her lips tugged into a slight frown. In response, he brought his own unsteady hand to his chin, rubbing the rough, coarse hair that covered his jaw.

"Would you like to shave?" Hermione asked, drawing her wand from the confines of her robes.

"Yes," Snape growled, his hand still smoothing against the bristles of his beard. Hermione hadn't noticed earlier the quiet tremor that shook his hands, but his own irritation was flaring as his fingers quivered in his frailty.

Conjuring the required tools, Hermione filled a small basin with enchanted water; the water churned and bubbled quietly, constantly refreshing itself and washing away any debris. She levitated the basin beneath Snape's face, positioning a mirror before him using the same charm. The withered man cast a pained glance at his reflection, and Hermione suspected it was the first time he had viewed himself in a long while. For a quiet moment, his eyes simply flickered over his own reflected features; tracing the angular projections of his cheekbones, the sharp hook of his nose, and the sallow bags that circled his tired eyes. His appearance pained him as much as it worried her, and she knew he was far from a vain man.

"Here," he grunted, reaching for the lather and the razor.

Hermione turned them over, her careful eyes surveying the subtle tremor in his hands as he smoothed the white foam over his beard growth. She was concerned that the persistent quaver of his hands would cause him more harm than good, but she resisted the urge to insist she perform the task for him. He may not be vain, but he was proud, and he was already disgusted with his dependence on her.

He managed to steady his hand enough to begin gliding the razor over his cheek, though Hermione could tell it took a great deal more effort than he wished to convey. Ever careful, the precise pressure he used to slide the blades over his fragile skin was slow and delicate and very precise, and it took several minutes before he finished a single side of his face. Rising from the chair, Hermione approached the window, staring out at the busy street below them. Several groans and quietly hissed profanities later, she turned back to her patient, and his face was clean of shaving cream. It was remarkable the improvement in his appearance the simple shave offered him.

"I'm impressed," she offered playfully. "You aren't bleeding at all. I don't know many men who emerge from the bathroom without several patches of tissue stuck to their face."

"I wasn't… aware that you were acquainted… with any men at all, Ms. Granger," he replied coarsely, the faintest hint of a smirk crossing his features and lightening the lines of his face.

"I suppose it could be debated," Hermione replied with a smile, flicking her wand at the basin and mirror, which both disappeared with a quiet _pop_!.

Snape set the razor on his bedside table, a curious expression set on his cleanly shaven face. "If I… provided you a list of journals—"

"Absolutely," Hermione nodded. "I will have them delivered to my office in my name." She paused, pensively, her eyes studying his face for a moment before she added, "But I still recommend developing an amicable relationship with your caregiver."

A soft grunt was his only response, and with a wave of his hand, the head of his bed slowly lowered. He turned onto his side, facing away from Hermione, and with an indignant bristle, she realized she was just excused.

"Good afternoon, Sev," she whispered, disappearing around his curtain.

* * *

><p>The remainder of Hermione's day was not unlike any other – as long as she disregarded the fact that she was responsible for the care of a formerly deceased man. She had two additional patients that afternoon, neither with a particularly challenging affliction, and she returned to Snape's room twice more to administer his scheduled potions and bid him good night.<p>

"I would say hello to Ronald for you," she began, leaning on the foot of his bed. "But I don't believe he'd handle the news of your 'resurrection' nearly as well as I have."

A quiet grunt was his only response, his eyes never lifting from the potions journal Hermione delivered to him earlier from her own personal subscriptions. Her hand gently touched the breast pocket of his patient gown, fingering the edge of the fake Galleon he had slipped there, and he tore his gaze from the page to stare suspiciously at her fingers.

"If you need anything at all," she whispered.

His ebony eyes held her gaze steadily, an unfamiliar – yet pleasant – warmth burning in their amber depths. Briefly, he longed to beg her to remain by his side; her company was certainly not unwelcome, and she had provided him a strange companionship that he had longed to call his own. When she finally pulled her eyes from his, in a swirl of lime green she abandoned his room.

Severus neither appreciated nor understood the odd surge of emotions she aroused in him merely with her presence. He suspected it was due solely to the fact he had not encountered another compassionate human being in nearly seven years – the "allegiance" of Death Eaters in the year following Albus' death certainly did not count as compassionate – and he was reacting to her in desperation. Try as he might to push her away, he knew she would only draw nearer, and prove his efforts entirely futile.

As the quiet click of the door implied her departure, Severus sunk into the bed below him. The longer he was forced to remain in the hospital, the more dangerous his presence there would become. She certainly would grow closer to him, as she was wont to do – and he wasn't sure he had the strength to guard himself from her. It was one thing to close oneself off from the world due to desire; it was something else to do so despite it. He longed for her company, if only because she was kind and she obviously cared for him – as despicably pathetic as it was that he would feel such a way. Initially, he sought to manipulate her compassion into his own gain, but the more time he spent in her presence, the stronger the urge became to simply accept her compassion as warranted and deserved, and not something to be taken advantage of.

He allowed his eyes to close, his quiet, rasping breaths echoing in his own busy mind. He simply needed to remember her as the painfully insufferable know-it-all that was his student; such a comparison would surely drive him to disdain. And even so, as his eyes were closed, he could picture the traits of her that were inherently mature: the pleasant scent of her skin as she leaned over him; the subtly hidden curve of her breasts; the hips that lurked beneath that hideously lime green uniform, accentuating her delicately small waist. He was attracted to her purely out of depravity, out of insanity, desperation; he had not encountered a woman – especially a lovely one – in such a long time that his body was reacting to her presence irrationally – naturally.

Shaking his head as though shedding from it the thoughts that haunted him, Severus allowed his eyes to flicker open. Despite himself, he still could not help but wish for her to return to his room, providing him the pleasant company that had been absent from his life for the last seven years.

He turned to face the window, the darkened sky glowing with the light of billions of stars. A gentle breeze blew through his room, carrying with it the silence of the night and the perpetual scent of freshly mowed grass and blossoming flowers. A clever charm, Severus thought, but a charm that truly impressed upon a person just how alone they were.

* * *

><p>Slowly opening the door to her apartment, Hermione was greeted by the quiet groan of the television set. She released a soft sigh; every evening she returned home, she had hoped she would find Ron elsewhere beside the couch. But every evening she returned home, she was only greeted with disappointment, the gentle hum of the television leaking through into the hallway before she even opened the door.<p>

Peering her face into the small apartment, she greeted Ron cordially and set her purse on the floor. Crossing the small living room, she plopped down indelicately on the couch beside him, leaning into his chest as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She knew he must have recently showered; while his hair was dry, the pleasant aroma of his soap emanated strongly from his chest, and as he lifted his arm, she caught the scent of his deodorant. She kicked off her shoes, leaving them lying beneath the coffee table.

"I missed you last night," Ron's voice was soft, barely a whisper, his lips grazing the top of Hermione's head.

"I'm sorry, Ron," she replied, tipping her head back against his shoulder to stare into his blue eyes. She brought her hand over his shoulder, her slender fingers combing through his messy auburn hair. "A very ill patient was admitted, and I was nervous about leaving him overnight…"

"Yeah, I know," he replied gruffly, his gaze returning to the television screen. "I know how you are."

Hermione followed his gaze, her eyes flickering over the glossy screen as the news stories breezed by. With her head resting against his shoulder, his fingers gently tracing the slender curve of her waist, they sat quietly for awhile simply watching the news. She loved the feel of his hair between her fingers, silky and softer than hers; and the smell of his body, a smell she couldn't quite describe but it filled her with warmth, with happiness.

As they reclined on the couch, tangled in each other's limbs, Hermione's mind began to wander. She couldn't help but wonder if Ron had ever left for work that day; she suspected he had not if he smelled so freshly clean so late in the day. She knew it was not unusual that he would have called in; he rarely appeared for work if she was not home in the morning to push him – and the only reason she knew such was because George had confided in her such information. He, of course, had not been aware she had spent the night at the hospital; instead, he relayed the dates to her, and she provided the missing link.

Rising from the couch, she brushed her palm against his smooth cheek. "I'm going to bed, Ron. I'm absolutely exhausted."

He raised his gaze to her amber eyes. "What about the patient?"

She felt her breath catch in her throat, a burst of anxiety exciting her heart. The recently overtaxed organ began fluttering in her chest as the color drained from her face. "What about him, Ron?"

Hermione couldn't explain her sudden apprehension to his question, and logically, she understood it was irrational. But even so, with the exhaustive measures she employed to ensure her patient's identity remain secret, the mere fact that Ron was asking after him made her uneasy.

"Normally, you tell me about the ones you stay overnight for," he answered simply, reaching his hand behind his head to scratch his neck. "What brought him in, why you wanted to stay. You know, that stuff."

Hermione couldn't help the small smile that parted her lips as he spoke; a feeling of relief and happiness washed over her. She hadn't ever believed he actually listened to her when she spoke about her patients; he seemed to always arbitrarily nod when he thought it was appropriate, a disinterested humming escaping him at the proper pause. Lowering herself onto the couch, she stared at the television; a rather flamboyant reporter was interviewing a woman she did not recognize.

"Well," Hermione began, softly. "We don't know what happened to him. He was in critical condition when he was transferred to St. Mungo's – the only reason I was assigned to his care was because how badly he was injured. He was obviously attacked, but by whom, we're uncertain; it must have been someone who sought to murder him, but they were unsuccessful."

"Sounds like he's lucky to have gotten you, 'Mione," Ron replied, his blue eyes scanning her face.

"I think… I think he feels the same way, too," her eyes flickered to her lap, where her fingers fumbled with the fabric of her robes. A faint blush settled into her cheeks.

A quiet moment settled between them, the voice of the flamboyant reporter resonating through the room. As a small yawn escaped Hermione, she rose once more from the couch. Ron's hand brushed against hers, and she offered him a small, tired smile, before padding softly to the bedroom, the feeling of the soft carpet soothing to her sore feet.

Closing the door behind her, Hermione breathed in deeply, the smell of her own bedroom a pleasant disparity to the stale scent of the hospital. Her bedroom smelled of clean sheets and an aroma she could never quite describe to anyone, except that it was how Ron smelled first thing in the morning; a pleasant combination of sweat, spearmint toothpaste, and the scent of his hair. It seemed a long time ago that their bedroom often smelled of sex, and as depraved as it may have been, it was a scent she missed deeply.

Peeling off her robes, she tossed them in a crumpled pile in the clothes basket. The cool air tickled gooseflesh along her skin, a shiver coursing through her body. She unfastened her brassiere, allowing it to fall to the floor at her feet. As the air brushed against her breasts, her nipples tightened into hardened peaks and she smoothed her soft palms across the fullness of her bosom. A soft sigh escaped her as her body began reacting to her own touch. Her exhaustion overwhelmed her desire, though, and with a long yawn, she drew a sleeping gown over her head and slipped under the heavy covers of her full-sized bed.

* * *

><p><em>It was a very odd feeling, the smooth tongue of the doe licking between his fingers and the pads of his hands. Behind him, a young girl's voice was rolling with quiet giggles, her hands tightly grasping his shoulders. He could feel her soft breath on his neck as she peered over his shoulder; he expected to find her emerald eyes wide with wonder if he turned to look at her.<em>

"_Don't let her bite you, Severus!" she whispered frantically in his ear. A quiet giggle escaped her as she rested her sharp chin on his shoulder._

"_She's really nice," Severus replied quietly, his voice hushed. "But try to be quiet, Lily. You don't want to scare her away."_

_The doe, standing only a few inches higher than Severus, lowered her head to the pocket of his overlarge coat. She could smell the food he had tucked away there, and as she poked her narrow snout into the pouch, Severus recoiled just slightly; Lily poked her head around his waist, her face peeking out from beneath his arm. Her pretty eyes were widened as she watched the doe snack from her best friend's pocket._

_When the doe couldn't reach any of the morsels that lined the bottom of his pocket, she pulled her head back, her round, black eyes glittering as she looked at the children expectantly. Severus smiled, tucking his hand in his pocket and fingering a few small pieces of food, and turning to Lily, he reached for her hand._

"_Here, Lily," he said, his face pinking as his hand grasped hers. He opened her palm and placed the food there. "Your turn. Just hold your hand out."_

"_Severus, I'm scared," Lily whispered, her wide eyes watching the doe closely. The doe, too, seemed to watching the young girl with a certain amount of interest._

"_Don't be," the boy replied._

_Standing behind her, Severus placed one of his hands on her upper arm. He was trembling, his face erubescent as he extended his other hand to offer support to hers as she held it to the doe. His fingers gently wrapped around hers, holding her palm open to the deer before him. She looked at them; and Severus could see his face, peering over Lily's shoulder, in the dark reflection. _

_Slowly, the doe leaned her head towards Lily's hand, her tongue slipping through her lips towards the food in Lily's palm. Her small hand began to recoil, but Severus' hand prevented her from pulling away. A quiet squeak escaped her as the deer began licking the food from her hand, and within seconds, the girl was giggling uncontrollably, the smooth, wet tongue of the deer tickling the pads of her palm._

_Severus felt his cheeks lift in a sheepish grin. His hand dropped from Lily's, and slowly he came around her to stand beside her. He tucked his hands into his pockets, watching Lily's face as the deer finished the food from her hand. _

"_Do you have more?" she asked, her voice a hushed, wondrous whisper. _

_Severus shoved his hand into his pocket, pulling what tiny morsels of food he still had. Even though he really wanted to feed the doe the last bits of food, he loved to watch Lily's expression, her face glowing with happiness, her emerald eyes wide and twinkling. He dropped the pieces of food into her hand, and with a high-pitched joyous squeak, she turned to the doe and extended her hand._

"_Sev, this is so great," Lily cried, wiping her hand on the front of her dress as the doe skirted away from them. _

_She turned to watch the herd gallop away, the subtle breeze rustling the leaves and catching her braids as it blew. Severus took a step closer to her, his fingertips brushing against hers subtly as he followed her gaze, the bouncing animals disappearing from view through the thicket of trees. Suddenly, Lily's small fingers wrapped around his hand, and she threw her other arm over his shoulder, hugging him close._

"_That was such a good idea," Lily whispered, her elation still obvious in her high-pitched tone of voice. "Can we do it again soon?"_

"_Sure," Severus answered, a smile creeping on his face. His cheeks were turning pink in her embrace, and he couldn't remember ever feeling so happy or so warm as when he was with her._

_Pulling out of his arms, Lily turned to face the direction of the deer once more, but they were gone. Lowering to her knees, she reached for a long twig, lifting it into her hand. Her eyes were skittering over the surface of the ground, and as she spotted another suitable wand, she reached for it and handed it to Severus._

"_I'm so glad you're my friend, Severus," Lily said, raising her pretend wand to his chest. "I'm going to make up a spell that makes you stay my friend forever."_

"_Lily!" Severus gasped, the stick in her hand pressing playfully into his stomach. "You don't need magic for that."_

"_I know," she said with a smile, waving her makeshift wand around Severus' head. "But I still want to make the spell. That way I can make sure!"_

"_How about…" Severus began slowly, waving his stick in opposition to Lily, pretending to duel her. "How about I'll promise to stay your friend forever if you promise to stay mine?"_

"_I think that'll work," Lily said, her hand jerking inward to poke Severus in the stomach again. "I promise, as long as you do."_

The glow of the bright morning sky glared through Severus' closed eyes, a crimson haze illuminating his view. Groaning, he pulled the blankets over his head, tightening around him a cocoon of cotton. The white sheets did little to protect him from the morning light, and gingerly, he turned onto his back. The movement caused shooting pains to fire throughout his limbs, a general ache infecting every joint in his body.

Slowly, his eyes flickered open, the sterile white room brighter than what he deemed acceptable. The candles were extinguished and even so, the sunlight infiltrating his room reflected off of every surface, a general glow burning his sensitive, tired eyes. With a frustrated jab of his hand, the blinds on the windows slammed to the sill, and finally, the room was dim.

His dream was quickly escaping his memory, but the overwhelming feeling of sorrow that suffocated him lingered on. A faint sting burned the backs of his eyes, and as he stared at the empty ceiling, he couldn't help the trickling tear that escaped his eye and stained his pillowcase.

A quiet tap at the door brought his bony hand to his face, roughly rubbing away the tears. A quiet creak and delicate footsteps brought Granger around the curtain, her face bright and fresh. Her amber eyes glittered in the dimness of the room, and as her gaze flickered over Severus', and to the surrounding atmosphere, a faint wrinkle pressed into her forehead.

"It's like a tomb in here," she sighed, her eyes fell to his face, and the corner of her mouth tugged into a subtle smile. "I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised. Are you awaiting the Vampire Congregation?"

Her subtle jab at playful sarcasm was not overlooked by Severus, and he arched his eyebrow at her, as though to say, 'Is that the best you've got?'. A small, disapproving shake of his head conveyed all she needed to know, and as she released an exaggerated exasperated sigh, she swept to his medicine cabinet.

"How are you feeling this morning?"

"Sore."

As she rummaged through the drawer, she turned her head just slightly, peering at him from the corner of her eye. Under her gaze, Severus shifted in the bed, a grimace contorting his face as his joints protested his movement, the musculature of his back screaming in their malcontent. She returned her gaze to the cabinet and removed several vials and conjured the familiar goblet.

"I'm going to begin including an anti-inflammatory potion in your cocktail," she said, pouring a pinkish liquid into the goblet. "It should reduce the pain in your joints. Can you tell me about your heart?"

Cynically, Severus began listing the characteristics of his heart she wasn't interested in: as though her name were burned into the muscle itself, his love for Lily was undying; his heart was broken, and the fact that it continued to beat despite its wound was purely a cruel joke played by Fate in all her capriciousness; it was cold and empty, its capacity for emotion all but exhausted.

Turning his gaze from her to the wall, Severus cleared his throat. "I have not noticed any pain… since yesterday afternoon."

Coming to his bedside, she held the goblet to him, as though offering him the opportunity to redeem himself for his sickening, pathetic dependence on her. Severus extended his hands, grasping firmly to the goblet, willing away the weak tremor that continued plaguing his limbs. The liquid within the goblet sloshed about just barely, and Severus was able to lift the cup to his lips and drink the solution within.

He hadn't noticed the small vial she held in her hands until she began drawing the potion into a small dropper: the devilish solution he had grown to abhor. She cast him an apologetic glance as she leaned over him, and in preparation, Severus reached to the edge of the mattress, his fingers curling tight around it. The searing burn of agony washed over him, and while he could hear the sibilance as the liquid began foaming at his wounded flesh, the sound seemed distant, as though his head were underwater.

Quickly, the pain subsided, and Severus released the edge of his mattress. The movement of his fingers brought to his attention their sore stiffness, and bitterly, he began to wonder if there was any part of his anatomy that wasn't in pain. Though he knew it was irrational, he had hoped the anti-inflammatory potion she fed him would have worked instantly – and was bitterly disappointed. Staring up at the ceiling, he curled and uncurled his fingers. Her hands were moving over him, her wand brandished and her voice gently singing the incantation.

"You may be wondering why you have needed so many applications," she began softly, sheathing her wand and returning the vial to the cabinet. Her amber eyes roamed over his body, a wrinkle creasing her furrowed brow. She untied his gown, turning it down to his lap. "You have a few injuries that seem to be quite stubborn. I believed, yesterday, they had actually closed some, but I don't believe they have. Typically, even the more severe wounds will heal within forty-eight hours."

Tucking his chin to his chest, Severus followed her hands as she showed him the wounds in question. They were glowing golden, a gentle halo surrounding them, but she was right; while the majority of his wounds were healed or nearly healed, there were several that continued to gape, the red flesh glaring angrily.

"If they haven't shown improvement by tomorrow morning, I will change your treatment," she told him, her voice calm but calculating. "There is another healing potion I avoid using unless I have to. I can only apply it twice before it loses effectiveness, but it is a very powerful potion."

As she studied his body, her hands smoothing softly over the surface of his flesh, Severus reached behind her to a small sheet of scrap parchment. He had charmed a summoned quill to record his voice into written word – he didn't suspect he would be able to steady his hand to produce legible script – and created a list of journals from which she could select to subscribe. As he watched her, her amber eyes oscillated from wound to wound, from landmark to landmark, from healing bruise to healing bruise.

"Have you decided yet whether you would like to confide in me what caused these injuries?" her voice was cautious and hesitant, as though it was a subject she wasn't confident she should breach.

He took a moment to reply, and as her hands lifted his left arm, rotating the limb at the shoulder, he winced. She seemed to notice the limited flexibility of the joint, and she chewed her lip pensively as her eyes moved over the socket. She tested another direction; she extended his arm out towards the curtain, but the quiet groan that escaped him conveyed more to her than the limited movement.

"Yes," he groaned.

To this, Granger's hands slowed in her diligent examination, and he noticed the subtle glance of her eyes to his face. As though she did not want to betray her curiosity to him, she rounded his bed, coming to his right leg, her gentle hands lifting the limb and testing its flexibility and range of motion.

"It is none of your business."

"How nostalgic," she replied, an acerbic sting to her voice. "Despite your beliefs, it _will _aid in your recovery."

"And it would appear… that despite your ignorance… I am still recovering."

"That may very well be true," Granger said, her hands finally coming to rest on his arm, her ginger touch lifting the limb and rotating it at the shoulder. "But it may shed some light onto these unhealing wounds."

"It is doubtful."

Granger disdainfully shook her head, her amber eyes burning in disapproval. However, she knew when to resign, and she released a quietly frustrated sigh. Finally, she spotted the fool scrap in Severus' hand, and she extended her hand. Severus passed it to her, his dark eyes flickering from her hand, whose smooth fingertips brushed against his skeletal digits, to her face. Her furrowed brow inspired a small smirk to lift Severus' cheeks.

"The list of journals," Severus said softly.

The saccade of her eyes roamed the sheet of parchment and she folded it carefully, slipping it into the pocket of her robes. "I'll have these delivered as soon as possible."

Severus nodded, turning from her to face the window. The blinds were still drawn, and thin rays of light escaped through the cracks. He flicked his wrist and the blinds lifted, allowing the bright morning to pour into the room.

"I'm not sure how you feel about it," Granger began cautiously. "But we have available a shower that can accommodate a wheelchair and a second person."

Severus eyed her in mild interest, his eyebrow arched as she spoke. He could tell she was forcing the disinterested expression on her face, a slight quivering of her eyebrows displaying her otherwise emotionless face.

"You have a few options," she continued, her fingers flexing at her sides; it was apparent she was trying to keep from wringing her hands. "You can finish as much as you can, and then I can assist with anything else. You could also forgo whatever you can't wash yourself, and we can take care of that in bed."

"I _am_ in desperate need of a shower," Severus acknowledged, his oily voice regaining its strength.

"As I said, I don't necessarily need to accompany you, but it would—"

"Ms. Granger," Severus began, his resonating voice chilling her. "It is your duty, is it not, to ensure your patients are comfortable?"

Severus loathed the idea as much as she seemed uncomfortable with it, but the truth of the matter persisted; the bed bath she provided him upon his arrival had done little to actually clean him of his filth, and upon waking each morning he was faced with the reek of his own body. And as much as his muscles ached, he yearned for a hot shower.

"Yes, and while cleanliness generally increases comfort, I must also consider the patient's preferences," she replied, her teeth chewing at her bottom lip. "If my patient is uncomfortable with my assistance in the shower—"

"Let us just pretend, for the time being, we haven't an established relationship," Severus interjected. "I am simply another patient."

Granger seemed to consider this, and she straightened her shoulders as she nodded. "Of course."

Severus was greatly amused that she was so uncertain in her role in that moment. Her discomfort and caution was evidence that she still viewed him as her professor, and because of that, he suspected, she had already begun treating him in a different light than she would any other patient.

"Give me a few minutes and I will have the shower prepared."

In a flash of green, she had disappeared behind the privacy curtain, the door quietly closing behind her. Severus leaned back into his pillows, staring woefully at the ceiling. In a matter of three days, Hermione Granger had become better acquainted with Severus Snape than she had in the six years she had been his student. His dependence upon her inspired in him a combination of emotions, from anger and frustration to an overwhelming warmth.

* * *

><p>Hermione's mind was whirling as she hurried to her office. She hadn't expected Snape's willingness to allow her in the shower with him, and while he was right that she should treat him as any other patient – she was afraid it wasn't so easy. Standing in her office, she tugged her fingers through her hair, breathing an anxious sigh.<p>

Assisting a patient in the shower was not an unusual task; Hermione had done it countless times before, and she knew she would do countless times after. But for some reason, her stomach fluttered as she prepared to assist Snape in the patient shower. Reaching into the pocket of her robes, she removed the fool scrap he provided her, her tremulous hand rustling the parchment. Her eyes scanned the spiky script, the haunting familiarity of the cramped writing reminding Hermione of her task.

Setting the list of journals on her desk to address later, she closed the door behind her and moved towards the supply closet. There, she retrieved toiletries for Snape, her stomach never ceasing in its churning. She couldn't rationally explain her apprehension, but with her trembling hands holding the various bottles, she ascended the stairs to the isolation ward.

In the large shower room, Hermione set the bottles on the tile floor. She summoned wash cloths and some towels, setting them near the sink, and with a final flick of her wand at her robes, she charmed the fabric to expel water. Steadying her anxious breath, she left the shower room, retrieving a wheel chair from the storage closet and wheeling it to Snape's room.

"Here we are, Sev," she greeted, willing her voice to steady. Drawing her wand from her robes, she moved towards his bed. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, Ms. Granger," he growled, replacing the periodical in his hands on his bedside table. Gingerly, he kicked the covers to the foot of the bed, revealing to the cool air the pale, wiry-haired skin of his legs. He began to lean forward, his arms supporting the weight of his body.

Hermione stepped towards him, shaking her head, and with her wand drawn, she said, "No, no, Sev. You needn't do anything here. Foolish wand-waving has its merits, I've come to find in my many years of magic use." Her tone was playfully sarcastic. "A swish and a flick later, I'll have you in the wheelchair, by no effort of your own."

Casting her a harmless glare, Snape leaned back into his pillows once more. With an emphatic flick of her wand, the saturnine man appeared weightless, his frail body lifting from the surface of the mattress and slowly lowering into the wheelchair beside his bed. It began to roll forward, the footrests supporting Snape's bare feet and the lap belt coming across his thighs without any action of his own.

Hermione followed the chair as it wheeled itself from the room, turning down the hallway and approaching the shower room, as though guided by an invisible rope. Snape leaned back into the chair and Hermione could tell from his stiffness that he was not enjoying his dependency on others and objects in order to survive. But even so, he neither complained nor cursed; simply, he allowed life to follow its course – and Hermione suspected he was a firm believer in the workings of Fate, and that everything that happened was happening for a reason.

As they entered the large bathing room, the quiet creak of the wheels and Hermione's clicking heels echoed against the tile walls. With her wand, she tapped the wheelchair, charming it much the same as she had her own robes. She closed the door quietly behind her, and the room illuminated itself with high-hanging candles. Another movement of her wand opened the faucets, the water temperature automatically setting itself to a comfortable heat, and as she tested the water with her hand, she allowed her eyes to settle on the man in the wheelchair.

"I am going to have you do as much as you can on your own, Sev," she said softly, and despite her whisper, her voice still reverberated through the room. "I don't feel you should be on your feet just yet. Anything you can't reach, or anything that causes too much pain – let me handle that."

Snape nodded curtly, his eyes focused on something that wasn't his Healer's face. Hermione felt a surge of sympathy swell in her chest. She suspected he was avoiding her gaze to reduce the deplorable sense of pathetic dependence he must have been feeling in that moment, and despite her best efforts, she knew she would never be able to completely relieve him of such feelings.

Gently, her nimble fingers loosened the tie of his robe. Moving behind him, concealing most of his body from her view and providing him the most privacy she could muster, she pulled the patient gown from his body. The chair rolled forward into the hot shower of water, and a quiet, pleasured groan echoed through the tiled room; the feeling of heat must have been heavenly upon his sore body.

With his hand out, the bottle of shampoo floated to him, dispensing the liquid into his palm. He began massaging his scalp, but a small whimper escaped him, and he recoiled his left arm. Hermione stepped forward, her voice quiet and kind as she spoke.

"Would you like me to help you with your hair, Sev?"

"My shoulder hurts."

"I know," she replied softly, and gently, she began massaging the soap into his hair. "I'm surprised all of you doesn't hurt."

"It does."

A soft sigh escaped him, her nails tenderly scratching against his scalp. His head fell forward against his chest, granting her greater access to the base of his skull, and slowly, with tender force, she massaged the shampoo into his hair, her fingers rubbing against his head. She knew it must have felt wonderful for him, the heat and the pressure and the rhythmic kneading of her fingertips; his soft groans of pleasure only confirmed her suspicion, and hesitantly, she allowed him to rinse. She combed her fingers through the length of his hair, loosening the tangles, the water rolling over his hair and her hand and into the drain below.

He was able to wash most of his upper body, with the exception of his right arm; his left shoulder was so tight and tender that he had trouble extending his arm across his body. She smoothed the washcloth over his right arm, a soapy lather concealing his flesh from her sight. When she finished, he retrieved the cloth from her hands, and she backed away to allow him to care for his more private anatomy.

Thoughtfully, Hermione had brought with her a second washcloth; she hadn't known why she thought it was best to do so, but as she stood behind Snape, watching him struggle to reach his lower legs, it occurred to her.

"Sev," Hermione began softly. "Lay that cloth across your lap – it'll give you as much privacy as possible while I clean up your legs."

Snape grunted in frustration, finally resigning to her suggestion and tucking the cloth between his legs. Hermione came around the wheelchair, lowering herself to her knees, the water cascading over her body and robes as though she were coated in plastic. Snape's dark gaze followed her hands as she began massaging his legs with the soapy cloth, her bare hands running over the wiry black hairs that covered the limb.

She moved over his left leg, gently cleaning the surface of the skin. Even his legs appeared emaciated, much as the rest of him; the skin seemed to sink around the musculature of the limbs, the tendons and ligaments holding the entire structure together appearing as though there was little separating them from the rest of the world. Her fingers gently stroked the ligaments attaching his thigh to his lower leg, prominent as the bones of his knees.

Around his right leg, there was a gnarly scar; it looked as though gargantuan jowls had surrounded the limb and tore in an attempt to remove the leg from its joint. How it healed without infection, Hermione hadn't the slightest; but what she did suspect, however, was that she was well-acquainted with the beast that injured him. As she smoothed her soft fingers over the mangled, silvery flesh, she allowed her gaze meet his.

"Is this from Fluffy?"

"Excuse me?"

"This scar, here – I remember, in my first year, Harry told me about how he walked in on Filch helping you bandage a wound… right around Halloween," Hermione explained casually, her agile hands moving down the length of his leg to his foot, where she delicately scrubbed. "I was just wondering. It's an awful scar to have received from something else."

"Indeed," Snape replied, his hands held strategically over the washcloth in his lap. "It is difficult to keep watch on the head of an animal when it, in fact, has three."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh, and as she raised her gaze to meet Snape's, she thought she detected the faintest of smiles tugging at his mouth. For a moment, she simply stared into the fathomless depths of his impossibly dark eyes; those eyes had seen such horrors, and she could only imagine the stories he could tell his children and grandchildren – stories of good triumphing, the woes of love, the value of loyalty, of dedication – if only he had a family to narrate to.

Standing, she stepped away from the water, the last droplets sliding over her clothes and forming a puddle at her feet. The flowing shower stopped suddenly, leaving Snape dripping wet and shivering in the cool air. "Would you like to soak in a hot bath for a little while, now that you're clean?"

With a wave of her wand, a bathtub – originally concealed by an illusionary wall – was revealed through a hazy, disappearing wall. The faucets opened up, pouring steaming water into the large basin; a combination of relaxing scents began to fill the room.

"I would rather return to bed," Snape replied, turning from the newly-revealed bathtub to the Healer behind him. His chest heaved with panting breaths as he drank in the thick air of the room. "I am ashamed to admit that… the simple task of bathing… required more of my energy than I expected."

"Of course," Hermione nodded. And as quickly as it appeared, the bathtub vanished behind the illusionary wall once more.

Hermione assisted Snape in leaning forward in the wheelchair just enough to place a towel over his shoulders, gently smoothing her palms against the fabric and drying his skin. He released a quite groan, the gentle pressure exerted by her fingertips nearly orgasmic against the aching muscle.

Bringing her hands over his shoulders, drying the base of his skull and his neck, she said in a quiet voice, "If it would help alleviate some of the pain in your back, I can give you a massage when you get back to your room."

He did not respond immediately, instead reaching for the second towel Hermione held between her knees. He began drying his waifish chest and then laid it across his lap, replacing the washcloth that he had tucked between his legs. Hermione came around him, lowering herself once more to dry his legs. He seemed to be considering her offer, watching her as she rose from her knees, reaching to the sink to retrieve the clean gown there. She slid it over his arms, fastening it around his neck.

Gently, she pulled a soft bristled brush through his hair, her fingers close to follow, gingerly scratching his scalp with her nails. His brow furrowed as she encountered tangles, and tenderly she tried to work through them without tugging too much at his skin. As she finished, the brush vanished from her hand, and he turned his head towards her slightly, peering at her from the corner of his eye.

"As long as we are still pretending that I am simply another patient with whom you are unacquainted," Snape said, coolly.

"Of course," Hermione replied, a small smile lifting her cheeks.


	4. Chapter 4

Rating: M – inappropriate for readers under the age of 16; contains scenes of explicit sexuality and violence.  
>Disclaimer: Characters and settings ©J.K. Rowling.<p>

**Potions, Plans, and Second Chances**

K. Marie

**Chapter 4**

When they returned to Snape's private room, Hermione eased Snape into a prone position on his bed. Gently, she covered his legs and buttocks with the crisply cleaned sheets, tucking the covers under his hips to ensure they would not shift from their place. The man groaned as he slid his forearms under the pillow, broadening his shoulders for her as she opened his gown, revealing his skeletal back to her.

Lowering his bed below waist-level, Hermione was able to freely access the entire plane of his back without straddling him from above. Drawing the medicine cabinet closer to her, she searched through the pantry for a topical muscle relaxant. She withdrew a long vial of a thick paste; tapping the mouth of the glass against his back, the paste slowly poured onto his skin.

Firmly, Hermione's fingers began kneading the flesh of his back, smoothing the paste over the pale skin. Her fingertips began tingling as the solution permeated her pores, and she suspected the same began happening to Snape as he released a quiet groan. Moving in circles, Hermione sought the tight knots of muscle that contorted his flesh, her strong fingers massaging them free; all the while, Snape's pleasured moans grew louder as the pleasure of her touch increased. At first, he whimpered almost pathetically, the pressure of her hands painful against his back – but as she kneaded the muscles, loosening the knots and soothing the ache, it elicited a more climactic sound from the man below her. She felt her own cheeks flush, the intimacy of the moment not lost on her.

Her touch moved from his back to his shoulders and down the length of his thin limbs to his fingertips. She worked especially on his left shoulder, her nimble fingers working to loosen the tightness that restricted his range of movement with the limb. As her touch smoothed to his upper arm, and then his elbow, the feeling of soft dark hair lining his skin and the faint texture of scars – including the Dark Mark – produced a feeling of intimate familiarity in the Healer.

She rounded the bed, repeating the same luxurious treatment to his other arm. The quiet moans that escaped him never ceased, and from this angle, she could see his face. It was partially concealed by the mess of wet hair, but the subtle furrowing of his brow and tensing of his jaw was evident, and quite descriptive of how much he enjoyed her touch. It almost disturbed her, but she could draw parallels between his expressions and sounds below her while she massaged him, and those made by Ron when they had made love.

What was particularly disturbing to Hermione – and though she had a suspicion of what was to blame for it – was her body's reaction to the groans that escaped the man below her. Catching a glimpse of his face only furthered the response, but listening to his guttural moans elicited an aching in her nether regions. An aching that should never exist in the room of a patient, especially when assisting to alleviate that patient's discomfort.

She smoothed her hands firmly down the plane of his back; she felt his body tense as her fingers brushed against his firm buttocks, a blush rising in her cheeks. As she folded the blanket back to reveal one of his long, lean legs to her, he moved to intercept her – but then thought better of it.

Firmly, her hands kneaded the back of his thigh, the coarse dark hair grating against her soft fingers. His leg recoiled from her touch at first, the fingers of her right hand slipping to his inner thigh while she pressed circles into the sinewy muscle. His jerking movement inspired violent flushing in her cheeks; she thought, for a moment, her fingers brushed against _part_ of him, a part that the most primitive parts of her longed to touch. His pleasured groans rang in her ears, the heat of her face squeezing a thin film of sweat across her brow. This moment, she knew, was far more intimate than what it should have been, and all the while she massaged his legs, she couldn't help the response of her body.

When her hands ached too much to continue, she pulled away. A quiet, disappointed whimper escaped her patient, and he gingerly rolled onto his side. Hermione knew she must have been erubescent; something flickered over Snape's countenance, an emotion she couldn't quite identify before it vanished, and he averted his eyes from her face.

"That was wonderful, Ms. Granger," he said softly, an awkward intonation to his voice. "Thank you."

As he turned onto his back, he still did not look at her, instead focusing his stare somewhere outside the window. His hands quickly gathered fabric around his lower stomach; her suspicion of what she would find there only encouraged her body's inappropriate reaction.

Summoning a cloth – and desperately trying to quell her longing – Hermione wiped her hands clean of the residual paste. Her heart fluttered erratically in her chest and her stomach churned with such vigor she thought she may vomit. Her face was warm, still flushed with color, and as she turned on her heel to vacate the room, she tossed a final glance towards the man in the bed.

"Of course," Hermione replied shortly. "I need to tend to my other patients. I'll be back before lunch."

Hurrying from the room, Hermione pulled the door closed behind her. She pressed her body against the cool surface of the sturdy door, wiping the back of her hand against her brow. Her inappropriate reaction to his own responses disturbed her greatly; she knew it must have been to blame on the fact she was once her professor – and a mysteriously private one at that – and to elicit such sounds from him… and to recognize his expressions as similar to those Ronald had made during very intimate moments…

Shaking her head, Hermione breathed a steady sigh. Her entire disposition – the nervousness and awkward combination of warmth and discomfort – could be_ easily_ explained. Severus Snape was a man she had thought to be dead for the past six years, and for him to suddenly appear as her patient – it only made sense that she would be hyper-reactive to his presence. She simply romanticized the man – his lifelong love and dedication to a woman and all of that – and it inspired the inappropriate emotions that overwhelmed her at the simplest of procedures.

Traditionally, when Hermione was acquainted with her patients, she would be forced by law to refer them to another Healer to avoid conflicting interests. With Snape, however, it was different; she wasn't _supposed_ to know the man because she couldn't positively identify him, and she certainly couldn't claim to have been his student in the past. Her reaction to him was simply a conflicted interest. She wished to treat him better and spend more time with him than her other patients because he was a familiar face whom she had not seen in many years.

As though physically accepting that explanation, Hermione nodded curtly.

Yes, that was precisely the situation.

* * *

><p>Severus lay back against his pillows. The paste she had applied to his back still tingled the flesh there, permeating deep into his pores and soothing the muscles beneath the skin. The hot shower and her marvelous touch rejuvenated Severus; he had not felt so relaxed in an incredibly long time, and while he knew it wouldn't – and shouldn't – last, he intended to enjoy every last luxurious second of it while it did.<p>

The potions periodical she provided him yesterday laid open in his lap, and he flicked absently through the pages. His breakfast had arrived at some point during the morning, but when, he hadn't any idea; and to be honest, he didn't really care for it that morning anyway. He picked absently at the plain pancake with his fingers, absentmindedly chewing the small bites as his eyes flickered over the pages.

Sometime after she had left, a stick of deodorant manifested on his bedside table, and he gingerly applied it – while her fingers had kneaded much of the tension from his muscles, his left shoulder was still tight and painful to move too much. The fact that he smelled clean of soap and deodorant was a much welcome contrast to the sickly odor that had plagued his body previously. And while they were in the shower, it seemed his bed dressings had changed; his sheets were crisp and smelled of clean cotton, and the fresh softness felt wonderful against his clean skin.

He covered the journal with the morning's newspaper, his fingers flicking through the pages for a headline of interest. As much as he tried, he found focusing on his reading difficult; his thoughts continued to linger on Granger's flustered face as she hurried from the room. While Severus was far from a bashful man, vaguely, he wondered if he had done something that embarrassed her – she could not have possibly known the way his body responded to her touch – or if she simply struggled separating the man she knew as her former professor from the man she was trying to view solely as another patient.

Her assistance in the shower had not been as awkward as he initially suspected; while he was far from comfortable in the situation, her efforts to minimize the discomfiture of the situation certainly yielded her sought results. The circumstances were the most unfortunate, and yet there was a certain understanding between them that neither of them wished the situation to be so dire, but they would make the best of it.

The tally of points he had been toying with in his mind had grown in her favor, certainly. Fate would have it that Hermione Granger _would _be his Healer; Severus was beginning to understand Fate's effortless capriciousness.

He knew the remainder of his morning – though there wasn't much left to it, truthfully – would be spent in solitude, and he welcomed it. While he found himself appreciating her company (and he reminded himself it was only because it was simply _that_: company), he also enjoyed the moment of seclusion her duties provided him.

His mind continued to linger on the memory of her luxurious touch, her hands smoothing over every muscle and melting the tension away. He had not expected her to travel below his waist; when her hands brushed against his inner thigh, he thought for sure she would detect what lurked beneath him. But even so, as she manipulated his flesh and kneaded away the tightness, he could not help the orgasmic response she yielded.

It seemed that with every passing moment, more of his thoughts were preoccupied with her presence; the smell of her hair, the curve of her breast, the gentle touch of her fingers. Try as he might to ignore that she was a woman – an attractive and surprisingly desirable one, at that – she persisted.

Smoothing his hand through his hair, he released a heavy sigh. Whether or not his depraved desire for her was to be expected, Severus was still frustrated by it. There were passing moments where he thought she would be safe to divulge to; there were brief instances where he desired to answer her every question. Those moments were fleeting and based in insanity, he knew, because to do so would risk not only his own mission, but _her_ life. He would not allow himself to be to blame for the death of an innocent person. Never again.

His rationality seemed overcome by his desire for a companion; Granger's company had been pleasant when she visited with him. A tiny burst of elation erupted from his heart whenever she entered his room, and while he knew it was foolish to feel such a way over a woman simply handling her responsibilities, he was hard-pressed to disregard it. It was almost reminiscent of the explosion of joy that Severus experienced as a child when Lily answered her door… Paling in comparison, of course, but the parallel was drawn regardless.

Absently turning the page of the newspaper, Severus' eyes blankly wandered over the words. He gleaned nothing from the articles, of course; he was hardly focused on his reading in that moment.

Fleetingly, he wondered what kind of shift she worked; she seemed to be there throughout all hours of the day, but he couldn't imagine she worked through the weekend as well. With a slight burst of panic, Severus realized it was unlikely she would be working during his entire admission. She seemed to be available to him at all hours of the day – and even some during the night – and he knew she couldn't possibly work during the weekends.

And if she didn't, that was one more opportunity to be recognized. Smoothing his hand over the breast pocket of his gown, he felt the small circular outline of the fake Galleon. Sliding his fingers into the pouch, he retrieved the coin and held it in his hand. Granger must have intended for him to utilize his wandless magic to make use of the coin, and she had been clever to do so; focusing on drawing her attention, Severus felt the coin warm in his hand beyond anything his own body heat could produce.

Uncurling his fingers, he stared at the serial number around the edge of the coin. The numbers represented the current time, and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Leaning back into the pillows, he slipped the warm coin into his pocket once more. In a matter of moments, there was a quiet knock at the door and then the hinges creaked as they were forced open.

Her panting breaths could be heard from around the curtain before she ever appeared. He smirked despite himself; she must have run to his room, concerned that it was an emergency. His sarcastic sense of humor appreciated her panic, receiving some amusement, but as she emerged from behind the curtain and noticed the smirk he was not quick enough to conceal, her own eyes narrowed dangerously.

"I thought it was an emergency," her voice was cold and curt.

"You were the one who told me to use it if I needed _anything_," Severus replied, his voice oily, if not slightly raspy still. "And I have a question."

Granger's chest heaved with a large gulp of air, and she was finally able to catch her breath. "Yes?"

"What is today?"

"It's Friday," Granger replied, a hint of agitation lacing her voice. "You couldn't have waited for that?"

"You will forgive me, Ms. Granger. I have no recollection of the days prior to my admittance," Severus replied, his dark gaze flickering over her face.

As he spoke, Granger's countenance softened and she moved toward his bed. Lowering herself into the chair, her eyes glittered with warmth as she watched him.

"You don't remember anything?" Her voice was soft, sensitive. She smoothed her hand over the clean white sheet. "Nothing at all?"

"What I remember last doing is certainly not what brought me here," Severus replied, allowing his eyes to fall to the newspaper in his lap.

Granger chewed her lip pensively as her eyes oscillated over his features. She noticed the barely-touched breakfast plate and a small frown touched her face, the corners of her mouth tugging downwards. After a quiet moment, she returned her attention to the man in the bed.

"Is that why you won't tell me what brought you here? You don't remember?"

"No," Severus growled. "I won't tell you because it is not your concern."

The fury that inflamed her in that moment was almost tangible to Severus; she visibly straightened her body, her shoulders broadening as she fisted her hands against her hips. Her brow furrowed in a scowl, an anger burning in the amber of her eyes. The air surrounding her crackled, as though, even as a twenty-something witch, she had not yet mastered the control of emotional magic. A small smile tugged at his mouth; she reminded him very much of Lily in that moment.

"Severus whatever-the-hell Snape," she said, a cold fury burning in her voice. "As much as you may think otherwise, it is every bit my business. I am your Healer and as such, the cause of your injuries is of _great_ concern to me."

Her hands dropped to her sides and she flounced towards him, her fury infecting even her step. She was inches away from him now, and if she wanted to, she could have grabbed hold of him. From the way her fingers continually curled and uncurled, he suspected she was suppressing the impulse to do so.

"And yet," Severus countered, "I am healing satisfactorily, despite the fact."

"On the contrary!" she cried. With her arms tense at her sides, she breathed in deeply. "Sev – if you do not want to tell me what you were doing that brought you here, that is your decision. But if whoever attacked you had used a poisoned blade, or an unconventional curse… it would assist greatly in treating these stubborn wounds of yours."

"But you _will _be able to mend the wounds despite your ignorance of their cause, correct?"

Granger did not immediately answer. A small wrinkle pressed deeply into her furrowed brow as she stared at Severus, and he knew she did not want to lie to him – but to be honest would further impede her search for knowledge. Her amber eyes moved over his features and finally came to rest on his own gaze.

Breathing a small, frustrated sigh, she nodded. "Yes. But it may prove more difficult."

Severus' arched an eyebrow, eyeing her with curiosity. "And?"

She had proved to him to be no different than when she was his student; as such, he had no reason to believe she would not appreciate a challenge. Her argument was futile, and because she wasted his time, mentally, he deducted five points.

A small smirk crossed her lips but she turned her head from him in an attempt to conceal it. She rested her hands on her hips once more, catching her bottom lip between her teeth; Severus could practically see the wheels turning in her head as she devised a clever retort. A moment passed in silence, her eyes searching the room as though it would provide her with a witty quip. Finally, she allowed her gaze to meet his once more, and she did nothing to conceal the smile that parted her lips.

"If that's all, I have other patients who need me." Turning on her heel, Granger's robes twirled about her feet dramatically, and while it was nothing as compared to the power conveyed by Severus' own billowing robes, he couldn't help but approve of the subtle statement.

_Well played, Ms. Granger. Five points._ "Wait."

She paused by the curtain, turning her head just slightly over her shoulder to peer at him from the corner of her eye. The coy smile that played about her lips disclosed to Severus her own private victory. She may have believed he would confess to her everything and he would allow her to continue laboring under the false pretense, if only for a few moments' amusement. Despite wishing to simply enjoy her company as it was, he couldn't help but play into his impulse to manipulate the situation to his own gain – and, of course, that gain was solely entertainment.

The strangest detail, for Severus, was that she seemed to play along. He suspected she knew precisely his motives, and it seemed that for a moment, she may have almost wilted to her anger – and then she composed herself and continued in her role. Perhaps she enjoyed his audacious sarcasm, his outright callousness and undeniable intellect; perhaps she appreciated a patient whose conversation was not as dull as a troll's. Whatever her reasons, it intrigued Severus deeply, and as long as she was his Healer, he may as well take advantage of it.

"Have you considered what you will do when you are not scheduled to work?"

Turning around to face him, she offered him a sincere smile. She smoothed her palm over the back of her neck, squeezing the flesh there gently as she looked at him, her amber eyes warm; her demeanor was a complete contrast to the woman she projected just moments before. However insufferable she may have been in school, she was certainly just as intriguing now. Her fluctuating moods – and surprisingly, it wasn't an irritating vacillation, either – provided an interesting sandbox in which Severus could play. Of course, she _would_ be his Healer, wouldn't she?

"Am I safe to assume you are worried about the safety of your identity this weekend?" she inquired, hugging her arms to her chest.

Severus did not overlook the sudden emphasis the posture placed upon her breasts, and silently, he chastised himself. His depravity and sudden interest in the opposite sex nearly disgusted him; he understood its origin – and because of that, he could nearly forgive it – but he had spent the past seven years – and more! – entirely devoid of feminine affection. It would not do to suddenly succumb to such urges.

Averting his eyes, he focused on her face. There was an odd expression on her face, as though she had immediately regretted her words. He suddenly realized, with some degree of guilt and amusement, that she must have believed his silence was indicative of his response. As though he did not appreciate her gloating – because, anyone could see, she truly had the advantage.

"I have already adopted additional hours this weekend," she replied quietly. "Shall I visit with you for lunch?"

A calm wave of warmth washed over him and he nodded slowly. Suddenly, he realized that whatever it was Granger deserved, it certainly was not his Slytherin tendency for manipulation. Whether or not she had a life outside of the hospital – and she obviously did, considering her engagement to (he assumed) Weasley – she was willing to sacrifice her time to ensure his own safety.

Fate certainly had a curious way of working. While he was lost in his own mind, she had vacated the room, and as the quiet _snick_ of the door brought him to the present, Severus was abandoned to his own thoughts – and the lingering scent of his Healer.

* * *

><p>The audacity of the bastard patient in the isolation ward! Hermione couldn't help the smile that threatened to tear her cheeks in two, but simultaneously she was filled with an intense contempt for the undeniably Slytherin man upstairs. She practically skipped down the steps, a small laugh escaping her as she shook her head in disbelief.<p>

She understood his game. His goal was to milk her generosity and compassion for all it was worth, while concurrently sending her on a tumultuous journey of emotions. In the course of thirty minutes, he had inspired such a range of emotions in her – she highly doubted a teaspoon could contain it all!

Pushing open the door to her office, she breathed in the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. She laid the patient folder on her desk; there was much documentation she still needed to transcribe, and hadn't the opportunity to complete it yet. She was quite fortunate that morning, as Snape was the only patient she was responsible for – while she did not approve of lying to her patients, she felt he needed the gentle reminder that her world did _not_, in fact, revolve around him. As the former Slytherin Head, certainly he would approve of subtle deception?

A breathy chuckle escaped her as she lowered herself to her desk. The fool scrap that Snape had provided her lay folded atop the base of her desk lamp, and pulling it towards her, she skimmed the titles. Many of the journals he listed she was already subscribed to; the rest could be easily forwarded to the hospital.

She flicked open the folder of patient zero-two-three-dash-ten, inked her quill, and began to record in her tidy script the detail of his injuries, her decided treatment, and his response. Every minute she spent in her office she was tempted to scour the patient file of one "deceased" Severus Snape, but every minute she quelled the impulse. Perhaps when she was not so busy with work, she could afford the moment to research, but until then, it would have to wait.

Though, her restraint did not quell the impulse that urged her to at least allow the file the opportunity to breathe the open air on her desk. With all the grace of a first year student trying to escape the dreaded path of Professor Snape, Hermione pulled open the drawer haphazardly and slapped the file onto the table, as though she knew if she did not do so the file would suffocate in the prison of her desk drawer.

Hermione spent the remainder of her morning that way, hunched over the thin folder of her "unidentified" patient, scrawling in her tidy script. She had been interrupted twice; once by an apprentice searching for Marcus, and once by Marcus… looking for the aforementioned apprentice.

Hermione, though she occasionally wished otherwise, was granted the freedom from overseeing Healers-in-training because her skills were in such demand that she simply could not afford the effort. But she took advantage of the presence of the young witches and wizards milling about the units, occasionally pulling them inside a patient room to observe.

Resigning to the distraction, Hermione allowed her eyes – and interests – to wander to the file of Severus Snape. Flicking open the cover, she met the reproachful gaze of the Potions Master, his lip curling in its disdainful sneer. After allowing herself one guilty glimpse of the file, she returned to documenting the care for the man in the room upstairs.

It must have been nearing noon when Hermione's hunger finally forced her to abandon her task. With her wand, she returned the file to Snape's room, and she was preparing to leave for the cafeteria when an unexpected visitor arrived through her office hearth. His tousled black hair was just as messy as always, the silvery lightning scar decorating his forehead having faded some since the last time she saw him.

"Harry!" Hermione threw her arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his cheek and hugging him close.

"Oi, Hermione," Harry replied, lacing his arms around her waist. He returned her kiss, pressing his lips sweetly to her forehead. "How've you been?"

"Fantastic," Hermione said, her voice heightened in her excitement. She pulled back from his embrace, holding him at arm's length, her amber eyes searching his face hungrily. "I haven't seen you in… in months!"

"Yeah, tell me about it," Harry groaned, combing his fingers back through his hair, tousling the nest even further. He straightened his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "I got home last night and I wanted to visit before I had to leave again."

"I'm so glad to see you, Harry," Hermione exclaimed, pulling him once more into her arms. The feeling of his lean, muscular form was pleasing beneath her hands; she was vaguely aware of the subconscious comparisons she was drawing between her best friend and the man upstairs. "You're looking well."

Shrugging out of her bearish embrace, Harry offered an awkward chuckle as he smoothed his hands over his dark robes, flattening the wrinkles. When he turned his gaze back to Hermione, he pushed his glasses back onto his nose once more; the frames came to rest in the angry red marks that flanked the bridge of his nose.

"And you," Harry replied.

Hermione, finally able to subdue her urge to fuss over the man in front of her, smoothed her hand over his cheek before dropping her hand to her side. Lowering herself into her chair, Hermione combed her fingers through the loose ponytail at the nape of her neck. Harry leaned against the wall across from her, his fingers toying with his wand. She couldn't tear her eyes from his face; it was nearly three months ago he had departed on a mission he couldn't confide in them, and she knew he would be leaving again soon.

"Can you tell me what you were doing for the past few months or—"

"It was unsuccessful, which means no," Harry replied, an apologetic tone in his voice. "Once we've completed the task, I can tell you all about it, but not until then."

"Yes, I understand," Hermione said softly. "I'm just so glad you're home and in one piece."

His eyes scanned the room lazily. Hermione's own gaze was searching him as though drinking in the sight of him; she knew it was a mystery the next time she would get to see him, and she would be damned if she didn't remember the precise angle of his jaw, the fading silver of his scar, the piercing emerald of his eyes.

"What's that?" he was looking at the surface of the desk.

With a graceful _harrumph_, Harry hoisted himself from his lazy lean against the wall. Hermione turned to follow his gaze. With a sudden wave of nausea she realized his gaze rested on the open folder of Severus – and as she had noted to herself on several occasions, there was no mistaking his distinguished features.

"Is that—" Before Hermione could intervene, Harry had lifted the folder into his hands, his emerald eyes shining in the bright candlelight. "Snape?"

Hermione rose from her chair, reaching her fingers delicately around the file and pulling it from his grasp. "I'm sorry, Harry, but I can't allow you to—"

"I… I don't care for the information there," he admitted, a dull morose tone leaking into his voice. "But… why?"

Hermione's mind whirled for an excuse. She knew rationally there was _no_ reason she should have searched the archives for the file. Her amber eyes searched the face of the man in the photograph, his fathomless eyes conveying disdain even in the photograph. She could not betray him – she would not betray him.

"I was just curious."

Whether Harry believed her, she could not be sure; despite the fact, he seemed eager to dismiss the discovery. Lowering herself once more into her chair, Hermione clutched the file to her chest, willing her pounding heart to slow.

Finally, it seemed as though he had completely forgotten his peculiar discovery. A hearty sigh heaved Harry's chest and it seemed as though the atmosphere of the small office thickened with a saddened mood. Sensing the sudden change, Hermione leaned towards Harry, her forehead wrinkled in her concern.

"Ginny is worried, Hermione," Harry sighed. "She doesn't like the fact I'm gone more than I'm home. I think… I think she thought that once Voldemort was dead, there would be less fieldwork for Aurors. And it's turned out to be quite different. Between my constantly being gone and their entire family fretting over Ron – I think she's overwhelmed."

Unsheathing her wand, Hermione twirled it in her fingers. She hadn't spoken with Ginny in a little while, but when they had met for lunch the weekend before last, she had verbalized many of the same concerns. She understood Harry's plight and she nodded sympathetically.

"I haven't even stopped by your place, yet," Harry admitted, and the tone of guilt was not overlooked by Hermione. "I… Ron's so different, Hermione. Six years… you'd think something would have changed. He'd improve. Something."

"Yes, I know, Harry," Hermione replied sadly. "All he does lately is watch the telly. I don't know what he hopes to see. I've tried to get him to go see a psychologist, but he doesn't put much faith in Muggle doctors of any sort."

"How are you holding up?"

"It's… it's been hard, Harry. I can't lie," Hermione whispered. There was a vague sting at the backs of her eyes, and she lowered her gaze to her lap. "I do my best, but… it's been hard."

Harry took a step towards her, resting his hands on her shoulders. Lifting her amber gaze to meet his piercing emerald eyes, she reached her hand to his. Her fingers stroked the back of his hand, and she tipped her forehead against his.

"Hermione, nobody would think less of you if you left," Harry said softly, as though he knew the topic was delicate, and pure volume could shatter it. "You deserve to be happy, even if he can't be."

"I know, Harry," Hermione sighed. "But what am I supposed to do? Kick him out and hope Arthur and Molly welcome him back home?"

"You know they would." Harry straightened up, his eyes searching her tidy office and finally resting on the folder she clutched protectively to her chest.

"It isn't so simple, Harry," Hermione whispered. Tears escaped her welling eyes and glided down her cheeks. "I love him. I just can't handle this anymore. I may as well be living alone."

"He'll come out of it eventually," Harry said, the tone of his voice strange, as though he was trying to convince himself of it as well. "But you have to ask yourself if you're willing to wait around until he does."

"I'm not," Hermione admitted, sourly, allowing her eyes to flicker closed against the tears that threatened. "I'm ready… for something else. Something more."

* * *

><p>A tiny sense of disappointment welled within Severus' chest as his lunch appeared beside his bed, and yet he was alone. It was fleeting, of course, and it passed without much second thought, but Severus could not deny its existence; Granger had said she would accompany him for lunch, and she did not make an appearance. While he did not necessarily feel betrayed by her sudden change of heart, the loneliness of his lunch was not lost upon him.<p>

The breeze carried with it the scent of the steak on his plate, and Severus' stomach began to churn. While the hospital's cuisine was far from extravagant, it offered much more for his senses than the sandwiches he had been living off of for the past few months. His estate was rapidly depleting; while he was hardly squandering his wealth, the funds off of which he had been surviving since having "died" were quickly draining. He realized his stay at the hospital would consume a large portion of what remained, and after that – the outlook was rather bleak.

He moved the newspaper in his lap to the bedside table; the article he had been reading discussed speculation about a current Auror mission, but of course, none of the blundering idiots at the _Daily Prophet_ had the slightest inkling as to what they were talking about. While he obviously never collaborated with the Aurors, their missions were much the same – it was really no different than when he was allied with the Order, truly – and Severus came to respect the organization. And unfortunately, as it so often seemed, the _Daily Prophet_ had nothing to say in a positive light, despite the risk the Aurors often took.

Gingerly, he lifted the tray to his lap, a small burst of pain radiating in Severus' left shoulder. Her earlier massage had relieved some of the tension, but the longer he lingered in the bed, the tighter his muscles bound themselves. Even his back began to ache again, and as he rolled his shoulders against the pillows, he felt a dull ache throb all along his spine.

He found himself pondering the whereabouts of his company, but he did not dwell on her absence. She was his Healer and nothing more; it would be absurd to assume she had time to tend to his every whim and satisfy his every need – especially when those needs were purely social. He began to carve apart the slab of steak, his gaze flickering between his plate and the door.

She did finally make an appearance, though Severus had long ago finished his meal. She apologized profusely, hurrying to the medicine cabinet to provide him his usual cocktail of potions. He took the goblet from her hands, lifting it to his lips cautiously. The tremor that had plagued him still existed, but he was becoming much better at managing it.

"Harry stopped by for a visit," she explained, a cautious tone to her voice. "Harry Potter."

"As though you would be referring to any other 'Harry,'" Severus replied coldly.

An icy fury began coursing through Severus' veins as she lingered in the room. He wasn't certain if it was the mention of Potter or the fact he was the reason she did not accompany him for lunch, but Severus was suddenly very irritated with the woman. Jealousy wasn't an accurate word to describe the emotion that washed over him, but it was the first that came to his mind. And the mere idea of Severus coveting her attention – and therefore growing envious and angry when she did not provide it to him (or worse, provided it to another individual, especially after having promised she would spend time with him) – was absurd. He was growing quite weary of the excuse, but he suspected it had everything to do with her compassion and the absence of anything remotely similar in the past seven years.

"If… if you wanted to, he could be trusted. He underst—"

"Absolutely _not_, Ms. Granger," Severus snarled. "You should know better than to even suggest such a preposterous idea. It is bad enough that you have recognized me. The last thing I need is for an Auror—especially one as incapable of Occlumency as Potter."

"But Sev—"

"There is _nothing_ to discuss, Ms. Granger."

If humans could deflate, she would have. Under his scornful glare, Granger seemed to sink a little, her eyes conveying a sadness that even the most expansive vocabulary would struggle to describe. As she looked at him, she breathed a sorrowful sigh; he suspected she yearned to tell someone, anyone, that Severus Snape was indeed alive and she was caring for him in the hospital – and if there was ever a person to tell, Severus knew it _was _indeed Harry Potter. But she needed to understand that no one could know; not now, and not for a very long time.

Straightening her shoulders and regaining her professional façade, Granger folded her arms across her chest, though it was not a defensive stance she commanded. It was casual, as though she was hugging herself to keep warm. Her kind amber eyes searched his face, and she tried to force a smile onto her lips, but her cheek only lifted awkwardly.

"I hope your lunch was to your liking. I have submitted the request for the journals you asked for, and they should start arriving by tomorrow morning," she said, matter-of-factly. With a flick of her wand, a short stack of periodicals manifested on his bedside table. "These are from my personal collection, and they are the most recent issue. Many of these were also on the list, but I've included others that I thought you would enjoy."

Severus reached for a couple journals, his eyes scanning the covers with interest. Lifting his gaze to her face, he nodded curtly. "You have my thanks."

"Sev, I _am_ sorry I wasn't able to make it for lunch today," she added, tugging her lower lip in between her teeth. "To be completely honest with you, despite how unnecessarily asinine you can be… I do enjoy your company."

He arched an eyebrow curiously, and a small smile broke out on her face. A small, pleasant laugh escaped her, and she lowered herself into the chair beside his bed. Her fingers reached towards his face and she brushed the hair back from his forehead, tucking it behind his ear.

"Despite your austere façade, you're not so bad," she admitted, smiling. "Difficult. Acerbic, perhaps. But now that I'm no longer your student—"

"How sentimental, Ms. Granger," Severus interjected. The playful banter they exchanged was amusing, he had to admit – and despite the fact she was actually being kind, her sentimentality was unnecessary and borderline nauseating.

Casting him a long-suffering roll of her eyes, Granger stood from the chair, resting her hands on her hips. "Is there anything else I can get for you now, or have you enough to keep you occupied for the time being?"

"I have a question," Severus replied, plastering the most disinterested expression onto his face he could muster. He allowed his eyes to fall to the journals in his lap and he flicked one of them open. His eyes began scanning the page as he awaited her response, though he was not actually reading the words.

"Yes?" There was no _hint_ of irritation in her voice at his melodramatic pause; she openly conveyed it, so much to the point that she ought to have added a small 'tut' of disapproval.

He eyed her furtively. "Are you going to be responsible for all of your regular duties tomorrow or—"

"You're wondering if you'll be cursed to endure my company the entire day?" she laughed with a small shake of her head. "My patient load is entirely dependent on how clumsy people are that day. I can't say for sure if I will have to care for anyone but you – but I do have other work I need to finish. So, rest assured; I will not be pestering you all day long."

"I see," Severus replied. Feigning disinterest, he returned his attention to the magazine in his hands. "Very well."

For a moment longer, Granger lingered in the room. He had not yet become habituated to the pleasing smell that she bore, and as he breathed the air, he caught the faint hint of her shampoo and the perfume she used. As strange as it seemed to him, he associated the smell of her with comfort, with warmth. At times, especially when she had helped him bathe, and then kneaded the knots from his back – he wondered if he had been wrong about her. He had found her presence so grating as her professor; but as her patient, it was something else entirely. But then, it may have been the subtle distinction that was to blame.

Understanding her excusal, Granger took a step back toward the door. "I'll be back in a couple hours. Enjoy your reading."

With a gruff grunt in reply, Severus nestled further into his pillows. As she left, he heard the soft whisper of her robes and the quiet click of her heels indicating her departure.

* * *

><p>When Hermione returned to his room that late afternoon, Snape was sleeping. As soon as she opened the door to his room, beyond the quiet creak of the old hinges there was a faint, nearly silent snoring. A small smile danced about her lips as she quietly closed the door behind her, her cautious step almost silent as she rounded the privacy curtain.<p>

Snape was resting against his pile of pillows, his head lolled to the side. His left arm lay beside him in the bed, his right arm resting across his lap. The light, starchy blankets were pulled up to his waist, and every now and again, his foot would twitch suddenly, shuddering the entire length of the covers. A journal lay open across his chest, though the cover was wrinkled and torn. The shadows that circled his eyes were lightening with every passing day, and she could swear he was starting to put on some weight. Though he was still very thin, the sickly pallid color of his skin was somehow darker – she couldn't explain it.

She opened the drawer to the medicine cabinet, carefully rummaging through the various vials and jars. She withdrew the familiar vial, the darkly colored liquid within sloshing against the walls of the ampoule. Conjuring a goblet, she poured the solution into the cup and examined it over the lip. She turned to him, simply studying him for a moment; he seemed strangely peaceful as he rested. To keep from upsetting his calm – and violating the trust he was just beginning to place in her – she would not inform him of the near-slip of his identity. What he did not know could not harm him any, and surely a Slytherin such as he would approve of deception by omission?

Coming to his bedside, she rested her hand against his cheek, smoothing her soft thumb over the rough growth of facial hair. It was barely apparent, but she could feel it; she wondered if it was an artifact of being as old as he was that he grew such a beard so quickly – Ron certainly didn't. He turned his head into her, leaning into the gentle touch. His eyes were oscillating rapidly beneath his eyelids, as though he were reading from the delicate skin.

"Sev," Hermione whispered, leaning close to him. "Sev, wake up."

She had to shake him gently to finally wake him. With her hand resting on his shoulder, she gave him a gingerly nudge; slowly, he lifted his eyelids, his dark eyes flickering over her features. He murmured something indecipherable, lifting his hands to his eyes and massaging the sleep away. His eyelids were still drooping as he looked at her, but he was conscious, and that was all she needed.

"I want to check your heart again," Hermione said quietly. She lifted the goblet in her hand just slightly, as though to prove it.

Turning from her, Snape breathed a heavy sigh. He shifted his legs beneath the covers, the creases in his forehead deepening as he furrowed his brow. The urinal was placed in a drawer in his bedside table and he reached for it; Hermione intercepted him, drawing the receptacle from the drawer. Snape cleared his throat as she handed it to him, and with a slight smile and a playful 'tut,' Hermione disappeared behind the curtain.

A moment later, once the groans and sighs expressed by the patient passed, Hermione returned to his bedside. He replaced the urinal on the bedside table, and with a quick tap of her wand it vanished. Eyeing him as she, once again, retrieved the goblet, she released a thoughtful hum.

"I should show you how to dispose of these," she commented absently.

With a subtle shrug of her shoulders, Hermione gestured to the goblet again. Snape eyed it wearily, the shadows darkening his fathomless eyes – and suddenly, he looked as unwell as he had a day previous. Frowning, Hermione turned it over to him; she knew his grave anticipation of the effects of the potion yielded his sudden ill appearance, but it was disconcerting, nonetheless.

He studied it like a Potions Master would: first, he brought it to his nose and sniffed it; then, with a small flick of his wrist, he swirled the goblet, his eyes tracing the tiny flecks of silver and black that littered the solution. In one quick motion, he brought the goblet to his lips and choked back the potion, his face twisting into an awful grimace as the sticky substance slid down his throat.

"I recall this being the more unpleasant aspect," Snape growled as he set the goblet down on the table.

Hermione nodded sympathetically. "Yes, it most certainly is."

They simply considered each other in silence for a moment before Snape lowered himself back into his pillows. With her hands raised in the air, she began reciting the familiar, pretty incantation – and for a moment, Snape looked as though he relaxed, but it was fleeting. The excruciating wave of pain washed over him; his innards felt as though they were being torn from him and for a moment, he thought for sure he was suffering a heart attack.

With her hands lowering closer to his body, the pain dissipated and he was overwhelmed with a comforting warmth. His body began to arch into the air, blood pumping vigorously to every part of his body. When she released him from the spell, he returned to the bed, his body having responded much the same as the first time she used that charm. Bunching the blankets over his groin, he turned to look at her, but she was not meeting his gaze.

With her wand, Hermione formed a very deliberate shape in the air above Snape. He watched her closely, and from the furrowed brow that wrinkled his features, it was obvious he was nearly as concerned as she. Glancing to him, she tried to smile; he did not return the gesture. When he followed her gaze, he noticed what she was studying: above him, suddenly, manifested a whitish silhouette, lying supine just as he was. The abdomen of the figure was littered with tiny glowing red spots, and it was upon these she was fixated.

"Normally, I don't offer my patients the opportunity to see what it is I create when I use that spell," Hermione admitted, glancing to him. "If I hadn't wanted you to, you wouldn't see it either. It's completely up to my discretion."

Snape lifted his chin just slightly in recognition of her statement, his eyes moving over the shimmering white form that floated above him. Hermione allowed her gaze to fall back upon it as well, and she leaned on the bed, her wand held to the figure.

"Do you see these here?" she asked, pointing her wand at the glowing crimson spots. "These indicate injury. The pink ones" – and she gestured appropriately – "are healing. There are these lavender-colored ones" – and again, she directed with her wand – "represent the wounds that have healed. And the bright, blood-colored marks" – as she moved her wand to the chest of the white figure, Snape visibly sunk into the bed – "represent unhealing wounds."

With a quick wave of her hand, the image faded into white smoke, lifting to the ceiling and disappearing from sight. Hermione lowered herself into the chair, resting her elbows against her knees. The slackened posture was very unlike her, but Snape said nothing about it, if he even noticed it.

After a sharp sigh, Hermione shook her head. She leaned back in the chair, combing the tip of her wand through her hair. "There _is_ good news. The good news is that the potion I administered designed to dissolve the bone shards that were lodged in your organs was successful. The shards have completely dissolved, and your body will utilize the fresh cells to repair some of the damage."

"I presume there is bad news, as well," Snape said, his voice icy.

"Yes," Hermione said softly, chewing her lip as she looked at him. "The bad news is that the damage – to your heart especially, but there appears to be some wounding to your lungs as well – has not healed. It is more severe than I anticipated."

Turning her gaze to her lap, Hermione released a soft, saddened sigh. Her eyes searched the lime-green of her robes as she twisted her wand in her fingers. Snape's gaze abandoned her face and fixated on the ceiling, his hands rolling the hem of his blankets into a tight coil.

"I can, of course, repair the damage," Hermione said, matter-of-factly. "But I'm afraid I was not expecting this. When I said you may be walking in a day – I was mistaken."

"I assure you, Ms. Granger; broken promises are the least of my worries," Snape growled, turning an eye on her.

Hermione could not stop the quiet laugh that escaped her at his blatant sarcasm. Shaking her head, Hermione tucked her wand into her robes. She reached to his chest, her fingers gently manipulating the coin in his pocket.

"Now that I know you know how to use this," she said, crassly. "I am going to begin brewing the potions I need to get you better. If you need anything—"

"Yes, Ms. Granger," Snape replied coldly, turning from her to the window.

Combing her fingers through his hair, Hermione dragged her nails gently along his scalp. His eyes flickered closed at the contact; the feeling of her fingers moving against his skull was soothing.

"I _will_ get you better, Sev," Hermione's voice was warm, yet firm, as though it was fact. "I will get you better, so you can return to whatever noble mission you're on."

A small smirk tugged the corner of his mouth as she spoke. "I have no doubt, Ms. Granger."

* * *

><p>When she vacated his room, Severus was left staring blankly at the ceiling of his room, his eyes tracing the shadows that clung to the corners. Though he had managed to conceal it from her, Granger's news that he would not be walking in the immediate future was disappointing. He was growing incredibly weary of the four walls of his room, and despite his view to the outside… he still felt like a caged animal.<p>

He knew Granger was doing her best to accommodate him; that much was glaringly obvious, especially when one considered she had transferred him to a floor that was mostly unused and loaned him the most recent issues of periodicals she subscribed to. And lest he forget, she was sacrificing her weekend to ensure the security of his identity.

Pulling one of the journals from the bedside table, Severus opened it in his lap. He had absolutely no interest in reading but with few other options to pass the time – he could resort to what he often did as a teenager, but the thought made him feel foolish and then what if Granger walked in? He could imagine the expression on her face as she registered the sound of his hand stroking his length and he couldn't suppress the chuckle that escaped him in response. He imagined she would abandon his room in a hurry, only to curl up on the floor of her office and weep. Professor Severus Snape, feared Slytherin Head and despised Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, wanking? If the entire world had not been turned over when she discovered he was not, in fact, deceased, then the sight of him masturbating surely would defy all rationality she possessed.

A goblet of icy water manifested on his bedside table and Severus reached for it, drinking appreciatively. He really ached for whisky, but he hardly believed Granger would provide him such a favor. He thought he recalled a comment that his liver was damaged, but he couldn't be sure – but if it were the case, she would certainly oppose his having any alcohol at all for a long while. He tried to recall the image of the smoky silhouette she summoned, but he could not accurately place the glowing stars that indicated injury.

The longer he sat in the cursed hospital bed, the more restless he became. The aroma of the outdoors that wafted into his room through his open window only exacerbated his discontent, but he dreaded breathing in the stale air of the hospital. He knew it wasn't just the fact he was closed off from the world – he had been living that way for a very long time and he had grown accustomed to the agonizing silence – but that he was completely inactive. Surely such a thing would drive _anyone_ to madness.

When Granger returned, he would demand to be released from the room for at least an hour. He could utilize one of the many disillusionment charms, and a wheelchair would be required – but he had to escape the four walls he had been forced to stare at for the past – three? four? – days. She would not be able to provide a reason to forbid it; he would defy her if necessary. If he could.

Pulling his long fingers through his hair, he briefly recalled the feeling of her small hands stroking his scalp. She had such a wonderful way of handling him; she was gentle, yet firm – comforting, yet strong. The touch of her fingers over his back and arms and legs seemed to linger as he recalled the massage that morning; it was as though his muscles maintained a memory of their own, and they could imitate the feeling of her strong fingers kneading them. He released a quiet groan; Weasley was a lucky man indeed if that was the kind of treatment she offered him.

For a moment, Severus considered actually allowing his depraved mind to manifest and dominate – simply for something to pass the time, of course. Granger was not an unattractive woman; that was for certain. Her robes hugged her small form quite pleasingly, and while it was certainly modest attire, it hardly left much to the imagination. Severus was a man, before all else; he could appreciate an attractive female, if only to entertain himself for a little while. He had not known the touch of a woman in a very, very long time, and it was rational to reason that was the purpose behind his persistent perversion.

Glimpsing towards the door, Severus locked it with a silent command. The quiet click soothed his fleeting anxiety, and as he replaced the magazine on the stack, he burrowed into the pillows behind him. His hand led a path of its own accord beneath the sheets, lifting the thin gown that covered his frail body. He allowed his eyes to flicker closed as his fingers wrapped around the limp shaft of his manhood, and gently, he began to squeeze.

As he laid there, his hand tightening around the slowly hardening length, the aroma of Granger's body surrounded him as though she were in the room with him. He could not explain the emotions inspired by the scent of her perfume, the smell of her shampoo – and he especially did not understand the pleasant way his body reacted to her sweat – but in that moment, he did not need a rationale. He simply existed with the memory, accepting it as truth.

As the scent of her sweat began overwhelming his senses, he could picture her body leaning over him, the modest exposure of her breasts peeking out just subtly above the neckline of her robes. In his mind, he lifted his hand – no longer skeletal, but strong and firm as it had been in the past – to her bosom, his fingers gently stroking her through the thin fabric of her gown. She lowered herself to the bed, allowing him to reach the neckline of her robe, tugging it down over her shoulders and revealing the dainty straps of her brassiere.

In his mind, she tilted her head back, exposing her tender throat to him. His hand roamed to her chin, his rough, calloused fingers smoothing over the soft flesh. His fingers slid to the fine chain around her neck, curling his fingers around it and lifting it from her. He imagined the pendant to be some form of a Healer insignia and he tore the chain from her neck, discarding it to the side. He did not need to remember, in that moment, he was in her professional care – he just needed her body. He just needed to feel her body. He didn't care who she was, what she was; his primal needs dominated.

She allowed him to pull the neckline of her robes further down her body, exposing the delicate fabric of the brassiere that contained her breasts. In his mind, she reached to her back, unfastening the hooks that secured the article to her chest. It fell away effortlessly; her pink nipples hardened as they were exposed to the cool air of the room.

Severus' hand pumped vigorously at his hardened length, soft groans escaping him as his mind whirled with his perverse imagination. He leaned forward, drawing one of the hardened peaks of her breasts into his mouth. She tasted of salt, of soap – the smell of her filled him with an intense sense of longing, and he imagined the sound of her panting breaths and lustful moans as he suckled her breast in his mouth.

As he stroked his manhood, she slipped her robes over her hips and they fell with a quiet whisper to the floor. Her knickers matched her brassiere, and with his fingers curled around the hem, he slipped them over her hips as well. She stood nude before him, her amber eyes burning with desire as she studied his long form; when her eyes finally met his length, she released a quiet gasp. Severus slid his fingers between her slender legs, stroking the wetness of her folds.

In his mind, she climbed above him, her thighs straddling his hips. She began to rock into him, her wetness sliding along his shaft in an excruciating pleasure. Severus gasped, his hand tightening around his throbbing organ; he imagined the feeling of her wet, hot folds, slowly devouring him, pulling him inside of her. He imagined her pulsing walls as she rose above him, surrounding him, sliding along him…

As he neared his climax, his grip tightened further around his length, the stroking becoming more violent and vigorous with every jerk. When he released, his seed spilled onto his stomach but he didn't care; the explosive feeling shook his entire body, his limbs shuddering in pleasure and a long, lustful groan escaping him. Granger's naked form disappeared and his fingers were sticky. He pumped his length slowly, deliberately, squeezing the last droplets of his seed from it, the salty liquid dripping onto his hands. He searched for the seemingly ever-present water basin, but it was nowhere in sight – but to no concern, he was a wizard.

He summoned the washcloth he suspected to be present in the bathroom. Using the water from his goblet, icy though it was, he dampened the rag and began wiping off his lower stomach and then cleaned his hands. The climax relieved more than just the boredom that overwhelmed him; the tension in his body was lessened, and though it may have been fleeting he took advantage of his new found freedom. Raising his arms in the air above him, he lavished the feeling of muscles stretching. His left shoulder even seemed looser somehow, and the feeling of the elongated muscle challenged the orgasm he just achieved.

Adjusting his patient robe and the blankets to conceal him appropriately, Severus closed his eyes. He breathed in the aroma of the room – a combination of the outside's floral charm, the salty scent of his ejaculate, and, amazingly enough, the lingering smell of Granger's sweat and perfume. The corners of his mouth tugged into a subtle smile; while he doubted she would actually accommodate his carnal needs, she certainly could provide the inspiration for him to do so himself.

Suddenly overcome with the desire for sleep, Severus granted himself the small favor. Discarding the cloth to the floor, he turned onto his side; he realized with some disinterest that he had been spending more of his time sleeping than doing much else as of late. While he suspected it had everything to do with his body's need for rejuvenation from so much healing…

"_Are you sure your parents won't mind if I'm in your room?" Severus asked cautiously. _

_They had just returned home from playing in the sweltering summer heat on the playground. They were quickly outgrowing the slides and swings, but Lily insisted to return to the place where they first met. After fixing Severus a drink of lemonade, she led him to her room, where they stood outside the door. Severus' heart was racing in his chest as he looked at the door that closed off her room._

_Lily's hand rested on the doorknob, her piercing green eyes scanning Severus' face. She bore a quiet smile, and with a shake of her head, she relieved his fears._

"_They love you, Sev. They'd probably rejoice that it was you in my room and not one of the other boys at Hogwarts."_

_A faint flush settled into Severus' cheeks as she spoke and he nodded slowly. "As long as you don't think your dad will—"_

"_Oh, Sev," Lily laughed, twisting the handle and pushing open the door. "Dad likes you especially. You're smart, you're respectful… for the _most_ part."_

_Her emphasis on the word was purely indicative of his treatment of her sister. Petunia and Severus did not get along at all, and often times Severus would spit very cruel things at her – but she was able to return such insults. Lily hated bearing witness to their rows, but she hardly interrupted. Petunia had not been very nice to her younger sister since she was admitted to Hogwarts, and there was a certain level of animosity growing between them. Lily had verbalized her sadness over their growing distance, but Severus didn't really understand it._

_As the door revealed its contents, Lily took a step inside. Severus followed closely behind, his dark eyes searching the large room – well, _he_ thought of it as large, but it was probably only because his bedroom was very, very small. The floor was carpeted with a soft white fabric, the walls a fading yellow color. Lily's bed was shoved into a corner by the window that overlooked the street and she lowered herself onto it._

"_I want to repaint it," Lily said shyly, her emerald eyes following Severus gaze as he looked around. "It's been this color since I was little."_

_Severus didn't respond; he noticed the mirror above her dresser. His reflection glared back at him, and he suddenly felt revoltingly misplaced in the bright room. His sun-kissed skin – still pale compared to Lily's – and dark hair contrasted violently with the cheerful room. He tore his eyes from his reflection, only to notice the small frame that surrounded an animated photograph of Lily and… himself._

_Lily noticed his gaze fall on the photograph and her face flushed. Severus lifted it into his hands, an impossibly broad grin spreading over his features as he watched the two teenagers wave up at him. They were in their third year at Hogwarts and it was nearing the end of term. He set the frame back onto her dresser. _

"_Is… is it okay if I sit beside you?" Severus asked, his voice meek as his dark gaze flickered over her bed._

"_Of course, Sev," Lily replied, a small giggle escaping her._

_Severus lowered himself beside her on the bed, and Lily draped her arm across his shoulder. "Are you ever going to invite me into your house, Sev?"_

_A choking feeling settled in his throat and Severus shook his head. Clearing his throat, he peered at her from the corner of his eye. "I like coming to your house."_

"_I know, but I'd love to see your room," Lily replied, drawing her arm from his shoulders to rest it in his lap, her fingers toying with his. She rested her head on his shoulder. "It's only fair. I want to know everything about you!"_

_He buried his face in her hair, drinking in the scent of the floral shampoo she used. The smell of her sweat lingered between them; shyly, Severus only hoped that he smelled as pleasant to her as she did to him. Quietly, he placed a subtle kiss there, so soft that she didn't notice – and he turned his head to watch her fingers._

"_Are your parents still fighting, Severus?" Lily asked softly, her gentle fingers stroking the inside of his left forearm._

"_Yeah," he replied quietly. _

_Lily's touch abandoned his forearm and instead she laced her fingers in his. Her other hand came around to stroke the smooth skin of his cheek, and Severus leaned into the touch. He knew she was feeling for the healing cut on his cheekbone, and as her fingers found it, she smoothed the soft pads over it delicately._

"_Has he hit you again?"_

"_Not since I threatened to curse him," Severus replied sourly._

"_I wish I could keep you here."_

"_Me too."_

* * *

><p>When Hermione returned to Snape's room in a few hours, she was surprised to find the door locked. As she wielded her wand, the lock quietly turned, granting her access. Curiously, she turned the doorknob, the creaky shriek of the hinges announcing her entrance.<p>

He was leaning against the pillows, reading from one of the journals she had provided him. Some owls had arrived while she was in the apothecary, delivering a few more issues of the magazines he requested, and she had them tucked beneath her arm. In her pocket quietly _tink_-ed the vials she had brought, and as she rounded the curtain, the saturnine man cast her an acknowledging glance before returning to his reading. On the floor before the table was a dry cloth, and with a curious expression, she waved her wand; it vanished from sight, and when Hermione returned her attention to Snape, the corner of his mouth was twitching.

Pulling the volumes out from under her arm, she placed them on the stack beside his bed. Then, she shoved her hand into her pocket and removed the two vials, tapping them with her wand to return them to their normal size. Snape eyed them wearily, and finally, he lowered the journal to his lap.

"Can I get you anything before I administer these?" Hermione asked him, lowering herself into the chair beside him.

"I want to go for a walk."

"I told you—"

"You have a wheelchair, don't you?" he replied acidly.

"Well, yes, but—"

"And you have a wand, don't you?"

"Yes, but—"

"And you are familiar with disillusionment charms, aren't you?"

"Yes, but—"

"I fail to see any reason why you should protest, then."

For a moment, Hermione simply sat before him, blinking. She had not been expecting such an adamant request, though she could completely understand his desire. Setting the vials on the bedside table, she rose from the chair and nodded slowly.

"Only if I can accompany you," she bartered.

"I will tolerate your company for the sake of escaping the maddening confines of this bloody room," he snarled, though it seemed fairly harmless; she thought she detected a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

"Very well," Hermione said coolly, turning on her heel. "I'll get the wheelchair."


	5. Chapter 5

Rating: M – inappropriate for readers under the age of 16; contains scenes of explicit sexuality and violence.  
>Disclaimer: Characters and settings ©J.K. Rowling.<p>

Author's Note: I hope you don't grow weary of my constant need to thank you all. You are some of the best, most encouraging (and in some respects, quite amusing!) readers a writer could ever ask for. Several reviews have brought a silly grin to my face while others have caused me to shamelessly laugh. I love your input and I hope you continue to offer me your opinions and your ideas! Like I said initially, this was just a bit of a plot bunny but I couldn't help but wish to continue with the story. Your perceptions, opinions, and ideas are valued!

Author's Note 2: College is starting up this week so there's a chance updates will be much slower. Bear with me!

**Potions, Plans, and Second Chances**

K. Marie

**Chapter 5**

When Hermione returned to Snape's room, the acrimonious man was seated upright in his bed, slowly easing himself to the edge of the mattress. One of his long, frail legs was already dangling over the edge, and though the sight of him perched on the side of the bed alarmed Hermione, she concealed her concern. The man was sick with dependence, and she knew allowing him just the smallest gestures of self-sufficiency would alleviate – though hardly eliminate – his feeling of debility.

Despite her better instinct, Hermione heard herself ask, "Would you like to try to get in the wheelchair without magic?"

Severus lifted his gaze to her, as though surprised she would suggest such a thing. Slowly, he nodded, and though Hermione was panicking internally, she wheeled the chair closer to his bed, kicking the brakes. With her wand, she lowered the height of the bed so his dangling foot rested firmly against the floor. She leaned her weight onto her hands, positioned on either side of his hips, and stared at him levelly. Snape leaned back away from her, his features twisting into a confused expression.

"You must listen to me and do as I tell you, do you understand?" she said firmly, leaning closer to him.

"I am not a fool, Ms. Granger," he growled.

Gingerly, Severus swung his other leg over the edge of the bed, supporting his posture with his hands. Hermione moved beside him, taking his arm and draping it across her shoulder, wrapping her own arm around his back and grasping tightly to his waist. He had done well to conceal his apprehension before, but with her proximity to him, she could feel his frantic breath on her face, as well as the fluttering of his heart within his chest. It was as though the maneuver innervated his anxiety as much as it did hers.

"On the count of three, Sev, I want you to try to stand. Put as much of your weight on me as you need to. It will only be a few steps to the chair," Hermione said softly. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," Snape replied.

"One, two… three," Hermione grunted as Snape lifted himself from the bed; he had displaced much of his weight onto her, and while he was not gargantuan by any measure, he was still heavier than he appeared.

Hermione allowed Severus to lead as they moved to the wheelchair. Her back protested the excess weight he placed on her, but despite the grimace that twisted her features, she silenced her body's despairing grunts as they approached the chair. Snape gently lowered himself into it, groaning as he relieved the weight from his legs. As soon as he was positioned safely into the chair, Hermione slipped out from under his arm.

"How are you feeling?" she asked breathlessly, pressing her fingers to his throat.

Snape's chest was heaving, the painful prominence of his ribcage pressing through the thin flesh that covered his chest. The blood coursing through his veins violently shook the flesh of his throat, and Hermione could nearly count his heart rate visually. Clutching his bosom, Severus drank in the air; the feeling of panic that washed over him was unexpected and very unwelcome.

"Severus," Hermione said firmly, lowering herself to her knees and grasping either shoulder. "Severus, are you okay?"

As he turned his face to her, his fingers clawed at his chest as though he wished to tear the flesh away. A thin layer of perspiration coated his face, throat, and chest, and as his nails dug at his chest, the skin glowed an angry, irritated red. Hermione grasped his hands tightly, holding onto his fingers and keeping him from injuring his delicate skin.

"Severus!" Hermione cried. "Severus! Focus! Look at me, Severus! Deep breaths, now. You're okay. Just take deep breaths."

Finally, he seemed to focus on her face. His dark eyes flickered over her countenance, hungrily drinking in her features as though he would never see her again. Swallowing hard, he leaned into the wheelchair. His chest swelled with hungry, deliberate breaths. Hermione summoned a soft towel, pressing it against his forehead and cheeks, soaking up the sweat.

She was not expecting the tremulous hand that reached out to her, bony fingers wrapping around her shoulder and drawing her in. Hermione was forced to clutch the arms of the wheelchair to keep from falling into Snape's lap, dropping the towel onto his thighs. Her hair fell loose from its tie at the nape of her neck, hanging in pretty tendrils around her face and brushing against the angry skin on Snape's chest.

His fingers were flexing on her shoulder, skeletal digits carving into her flesh painfully. Staring worriedly into his eyes, she barely registered the pretty blue flecks that glittered in the darkness of his irises. Her face, eyes widened with concern, swam in the reflection of his eyes. When finally he released her, his hands grasped at the armrests; Hermione retrieved the towel from his lap, smoothing it over his cheeks again.

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered, still kneeling before him; her voice cracked on her words as she tried to will away her anxiety. She smoothed the towel over his throat before her fingers gently brushed against the rash on his chest. "You weren't ready for that, not with your heart… I shouldn't have let you…"

Severus gently shook his head. "Ms. Granger, I understand your reasoning." His dark eyes searched her face, and as she looked at him, she recognized something deep in the darkness of his gaze. "And I am… appreciative."

A small smile broke out on her face, and as she stared in his eyes she could see the reflection of her face in the darkness. Something else was there too, but she couldn't identify it – an emotion of some form, but she couldn't be sure. Bringing her hand to his hair, she combed her fingers through it, trying futilely to straighten the disheveled mess. It was a strangely tender moment; Hermione was overcome with a feeling of warmth she could neither explain nor understand.

"However," he growled, pulling out of her touch. "I would find myself much more appreciative if we honored my efforts and left this wretched room."

A quiet laugh escaped Hermione. "Of course."

Drawing her wand from her robes, she first tapped Severus' wheelchair; in a moment, it had vanished from view, leaving Snape with the appearance he was hovering above the ground. She performed the same charm on Severus, and he vanished from her sight, though she had fisted a handful of his patient gown to keep track of him – she did not put it past the asinine man to speed off while she could not see him. Finally, she cast the spell on herself, and with a warm trickling feeling down her spine, Hermione, too, was invisible.

"Shall we?" Snape said, peering up at her.

Nodding, Hermione began walking beside the wheelchair as it rolled itself through the door. Silently, they moved to the elevator at the far end of the hallway; Hermione did not expect it to be vacant – that would be far too convenient, after all – and it would be a hassle to slip into the small space unnoticed. As the brass grille opened to permit them access, she found herself to be mistaken, and breathing a small, relieved sigh she and Severus boarded it.

The descent to the bottom floor was far from peaceful; Hermione avoided using the elevator for that very reason. It was very loud and the floor rattled as the chain that supported the lift lowered them. She hardly felt it was a stable mode of transportation, but she had little choice when it came to transporting a wheelchair-bound patient, and it didn't seem Snape had much of an issue with it; though, if he were thinking about much else other than fresh air and open spaces, she would have been surprised.

As the gate opened to allow them exit off the lift, the wheelchair began to roll forward. A few busy bodies on the bottom floor turned to look at the empty elevator, and through habit, she offered them a kind smile. Obviously, they did not respond; instead, they turned and carried on with their business.

The wheelchair wheedled Snape through the crowd, easily avoiding impacting any of the witches and wizards that milled about. Hermione, however, struggled to pass unnoticed, and by the time she had arrived on the terrace beside her patient, she was breathless and damp with sweat. Snape peered up at her through the corner of his eye, his eyebrow arched in sarcastic amusement. Hermione simply wrinkled her nose at him, impersonating the best sneer she could manage.

A small smirk played about his lips and as he sat beside her for a moment, he simply surveyed his surroundings. His chest rose with deep breaths as he drank in the fresh air; the same charm perfumed it as the breeze that drifted into his room. Combing his fingers through his hair, Severus leaned his head back, the sun warming his sallow skin.

"I never imagined you the type to appreciate sunlight," Hermione whispered, playfully.

"You would be surprised how confinement affects your sanity, Ms. Granger," he replied, coldly.

They began roaming, an idle pace carrying them first along the sidewalk that surrounded the hospital. It was cluttered with people, mostly visitors but there were a few hospital workers that were outside smoking. They were able to pass through the patrons without notice, and Hermione began to lead down a path that would take them to a nearby park.

"I did not expect you to be so liberal, Ms. Granger," Snape said, casually, as his eyes wandered over the grassy hills and fragrant trees that littered the landscape. "To lead so far from the hospital."

"If it's an emergency, I can Apparate us back," Hermione replied. "I just wish to avoid it; it's incredibly risky in your unstable state. But I do believe you're well enough to roll around the park for a bit."

"I am appreciative."

"I know."

As they walked slowly down a paved pathway, Hermione tucked her hands into the pockets of her robes. The park was relatively empty for such a lovely day, but she suspected it had everything to do with the fact it was the middle of the afternoon and most people were working. She let her glance flicker to the man beside her; the sunlight did much for his appearance, feigning good health by coloring his skin just slightly. He was not so sallow in the sunlight; instead, his skin seemed to glow with warm tones. His shiny black hair glittered in the bright light.

"I realize that you don't want to tell me about what brought you here," Hermione began softly, a cautious intonation in her voice. "And I understand. But..." Her mind frantically searched for the appropriate words: Why didn't you die? How didn't you bleed to death?

"I assume you wish to know how I survived what should have been a fatal bite."

His voice contained a noncommittal tone, as though he were making mention of the weather. Hermione was surprised that he could be so detached about such a subject when it concerned his life and a vicious attack upon it. Just the mere thought – not even the physical memory, but the less tangible thought – of Nagini's vicious attack brought tears to her eyes, and she merely witnessed it. He had been _victim_ to it.

"Yes," she said finally.

For a long while, they walked in silence. Hermione suspected Snape was going to, once again, deny her information she was so desperate to know. Her pace was idle, nearly falling behind the slow roll of the wheelchair. Severus was staring straight ahead of him, as though he was lost in his own mind and paying no attention to the passing scenery.

"I told you, Ms. Granger," Severus began slowly, his gaze pulling from whatever he was fixated on to look at her. "You do not give me enough credit."

She searched his face for any indication that he intended to continue, but his voice had been very clear; the end of the conversation had already arrived, and he had no intention to continue. He returned his attention to the scenery, his dark eyes surveying all that surrounded him. The warm sun pinked both their faces, but the cool wind that drifted through the trees breezed into their gowns, lifting the fabric. Hermione shivered.

Snape released a small, seemingly uninspired chuckle – but Hermione knew the former Potions professor and Slytherin Head of House did not chuckle without reason, and she suspected he was lost in his own thoughts. They continued along for a short time in quiet; Hermione had opened her mouth to speak on several occasions, but her lips sealed without having spoken a word. Open, close. Open, close.

The wheelchair continued rolling, easily avoiding any oncoming traffic as pedestrians made their way in the opposite direction. When they approached a bench, the chair seemed to roll beside it of its own accord. Hermione lowered herself to the bench beside Severus, stretching her legs out in front of her. Snape folded his hands into his lap, his gaze carefully studying the view laid out before them.

Rolling hills of green stretched out for what seemed like miles, but in the far distance, the silhouettes of tall buildings littered the horizon. There was a small pond in the center of the park, the surface of the water glittering in the sunlight and peppered with floating, buoyant ducks. A few picnickers were gathered around a blanket near the water, and occasionally their laughter was carried by the wind to the couple on the bench. A man in Muggle clothing was walking his dog along the path, and there was a young woman coddling a baby in the grass.

"Are you going to tell me anything about you, Sev? Or have the years of isolation done nothing to change you?" Hermione whispered, her eyes following the walking Muggle man.

"The only thing my seclusion has done," Snape began slowly, his fingers curling around the arms of his wheelchair as he watched the young woman and the baby, "has made the few times I am forced to interact with others less intolerable."

Hermione allowed a small smile to cross her features, her warm eyes moving over Severus' face as though it would be the last time she would ever see him. "I believe a wise man once said, 'only a fool plays it cool by making his world colder.'"

Above them, the quiet chirping of a bird filled the silence that settled between them. Snape's eyes had ceased in their survey, the corner of his mouth twitching in what Hermione only hoped was amusement.

"Ms. Granger, that wise man was Paul McCartney, and believe it or not – I _am_ acquainted with Muggle popular culture," Snape replied coldly with a long-suffering roll of his ebony eyes.

Hermione couldn't help the light-hearted laugh that escaped her, and it seemed to infect Snape as well; a gruff sound escaped him, a concealed chuckle, she suspected, and for a fleeting moment she thought to envelope his hand within hers. Once her sanity returned to her, however, she realized she was sitting beside Severus Snape, one of the coldest, most sarcastic men she had ever known.

The silence that settled between them was not uncomfortable, but it was strange. Snape seemed to be considering something, and once Hermione thought she heard a sharp intake of breath as though he was going to begin speaking; but it was followed by silence. Hermione's gaze followed the Muggle man as he walked around the paved path, tugging his dog away from flocks of birds.

"You have made mention of him, but you never implied your relationship," Snape began, feigning interest. "Your ring."

Hermione lifted her hand, the small diamond set in the band glittering in the sunlight. "Oh, yes… I am engaged to Ron."

"And it is curious," Severus said softly, arching his eyebrow as he peered at her. "It is quite curious, indeed."

Hermione released a soft sigh, lowering her gaze to her lap. There, her fingers twisted the dainty ring around her finger, chewing her lip.

"It is also intriguing that you appear to be less than pleased about the arrangement," Snape added. "As though you were forced into such a situation."

"I was hardly _forced_, Sev," Hermione snapped. "Ron has changed since the end of the war."

"I imagine everyone has changed, Ms. Granger."

"It's as though Ron is a completely different person," Hermione sighed. "He hardly… he hardly does _anything_."

Severus tipped his chin just slightly as though to say, 'Ah.' She turned her gaze to him, a sadness welling in her eyes that was nearly tangible. As the cool breeze lifted her hair from the back of her neck, it carried the pretty floral scent he had grown to enjoy. He turned his face away from her eyes, his gaze tracing the outline of the horizon.

"After Fred died," Hermione said softly, a choked sound in her voice. "Ron just… I don't think he could handle it. For a year or so, he refused to accept it. We didn't talk about it much. That… that was when he proposed. He wasn't so different then, and of course, I loved him. But then… Then… he just… changed."

She allowed her gaze to fall to her lap, staring at the soft pads of her hands. Snape shifted in the chair beside her, and she knew the conversation must have been awkward for him. She couldn't help but confide in him – she knew not what drove the desire and despite the small voice that insisted she would regret it. Her past experiences with him were evidence enough he was not compassionate, and yet his recent behaviors indicated he had changed in the years he had been "dead."

She had not the slightest idea why, but she yearned to give him the chance to prove that he was not the callous, sarcastic, vindictive, petty man that she had grown to believe him to be. And even if he would not confide in her anything at all about him, it did not mean she had to allow his secrecy dictate her own interactions with him.

"You do not sound happy, Ms. Granger," Snape growled, his eyes following the bodies of the picnickers. "What point is there if you are unhappy?"

Hermione did not suspect his statement had any intention on stinging, but as soon as the words escaped him she felt anger overwhelm her. She did not believe he had any right to say any such thing, and the fact he was so audacious and hypocritical incensed her more than his words. The tiny voice that had attempted to discourage her from confiding in him began shrieking its victory.

"You're one to talk," Hermione hissed. "You dedicated your entire life to a dead woman's memory."

He bristled at her biting remark, and as she met his gaze she could see the fiery anger that glowed within the unfathomable depths. She noticed the tension increase in his frail arms, and for a moment she suspected he considered striking her. Instead, he tightened his grasp on the armrests of the chair, his knuckles paling to a skeletal white.

"You have no right," Severus snarled. His voice was a dangerous hiss, but Hermione was unfazed by it.

"And neither have you," Hermione replied softly, her amber eyes burning with a fury that matched his.

Swallowing hard, Severus turned his gaze from her. "I am simply stating an observation."

"And I am simply stating fact."

* * *

><p>As Severus' gaze followed the picnickers as they milled about the pond, Granger's voice seemed to carry with it an indescribable sorrow that seemed inappropriate considering the subject matter. Though he knew it was a bold statement to declare, the impulse to speak swept through him – and while he was not one to allow his urges to overcome his logic, he did not bite his tongue.<p>

"You do not seem happy, Ms. Granger. What point is there if you are unhappy?"

She snapped her gaze to him, a brief expression flickering over her countenance. Her brow furrowed, a wrinkle creasing her forehead; her eyes passed over his features, a fiery fury burning within their amber depths. In that moment, Severus knew he inspired a temper within her that rarely ignited; he realized then she was not so unlike him.

"You're one to talk," she snarled, her voice sibilate in her anger. The words she spoke next did not need to escape her lips; he already knew what she was going to hiss, and they stung. "You dedicated your entire life to a dead woman's memory."

Had Severus the energy, he feared he would have struck her in her audacity. The fury that overwhelmed him in that moment threatened to loosen his resolve. Driving his fingers into the armrests, he tightened his grasp until his knuckles were so white they were nearly translucent. He forced his voice into a low growl, vicious and dangerous.

"You have no right."

Color rose into her cheeks in her anger, her fury emanating off her like the heat of her body. "And neither have you."

As her words rang in his mind, Severus breathed in a deep, steadying breath. Turning his gaze from her face, he stared off to the glittering pond. Swallowing hard, he forced away the lump growing in his throat.

"I am merely stating an observation."

Granger's gaze finally abandoned his face, lingering somewhere beyond the horizon. The intonation of her voice was icy and biting, not dissimilar from the tone Severus usually commanded.

"And I am merely stating fact."

* * *

><p>As silence settled between them, Severus allowed his gaze to drift over her face. Her features were still twisted into an angry expression, but the color slowly drained from her face. The anger that radiated from her small form was unexpected and nearly intimidating, but with it, Severus developed a certain sense of understanding about her. He was truly beginning to understand why Hermione Jean Granger, of all the Healers he could have been assigned to, was the one responsible for his care.<p>

"Perhaps I should apologize, Ms. Granger," Severus whispered. "It was not my place."

For a moment, they were bathed in an awkward, heavy silence. Severus knew it was unusual for him to apologize – it was a very unusual experience to even feel as though he were in the wrong – but the uncomfortable silence that weighed in on them was entirely unrelated to that. Hermione's gaze was fixated on something before her, her face maintaining its furious expression.

And in the next moment, her face crumpled. She visibly wilted under his gaze, her entire posture seeming to collapse; her shoulders slumped forward and her head seemed to hang limply. She lifted her hand to her face, a quiet muffled cry escaping her as her entire body shivered with her sobs.

Severus was hardly adept at handling positive social interaction – his ability to console was even more dreadful. As his Healer wept beside him, Severus stared at her for a moment; he hadn't even been aware that what he had said could evoke sadness. He thought of what he would prefer to hear if he were upset, and he realized that would be of no help to him either. He would have wanted to be alone, but seeing as he could not leave her side without inspiring her harpy-like screeches… it was very uncommon, but Severus was at a complete loss.

"I only want – him to be – happy," her voice was broken by her choking sobs, her hands trembling as she pulled them through her hair. "But I don't – know if I – can stay – with him – anymore."

As though the confession shocked her, she buried her face in her hands, her shoulders wracking with her violent sobs. Her entire body was trembling. Severus thought her plight was simple to solve, and yet he knew to state such a solution would not yield his intended result. He brought his own tremulous hand to the rough growth covering his jaw, smoothing his fingers over the coarse hair there. He released a soft sigh, his dark eyes flickering between the woman who had shown him such compassion in the past few days and the surrounding greenery.

"Ms. Granger," he growled. "You should do what will make _you_ happiest. If Mr. Weasley has succumbed to his own sorrow, there is nothing you can do to help him. You cannot solve _all_ of his problems. You are not in school anymore."

Even though her body still shuddered with her cries, Granger's hands dropped away from her face just slightly. Severus felt himself tense at her reaction; he had no idea whether or not she would interpret his statement in the manner in which he meant it – but he really loathed the idea of sitting in her company if she continued to cry.

She dragged the back of her hand roughly against her mouth, sniffling and turning watery eyes onto the man beside her. "I'm… I'm sorry, Sev. I shouldn't have cried in front of you."

Though he was inclined to agree, Severus said nothing, apprehensive to provoke anger – or worse, further crying. It didn't matter though, it seemed as though Granger had finally managed to contain her emotions and stifle her tears. Rubbing roughly at her eyes, she finally rose from the bench.

"I think it's about time we return to the hospital," she said softly. "You are due for your scheduled potions, and I need to administer a treatment."

Relieved to be, once more, in the presence of a professional, Severus nodded. The wheelchair began rolling once more of its own doing, and they began the long and idle walk back to the hospital. Hermione did not say much to him, though, and he suspected she was lost in her own thoughts.

* * *

><p>When they finally returned to Snape's hospital room, Hermione had all but suppressed any negative emotion that still haunted her. Having no desire to struggle with Severus' form, however, she levitated him to his bed without offering he have any opportunity to ambulate there himself. He didn't seem to protest, though, and she suspected he was already weary of her presence by that time.<p>

As she mixed his normal medicinal cocktail, Hermione didn't speak much, and neither did her patient. It wasn't until she was preparing to administer the cardiac potion that would begin – hopefully – healing his heart did she say anything at all. She was standing over the medicine cabinet, pouring a precise amount of pinkish potion into the ever-present goblet; Snape's dark gaze was focused on her, and while his scrutiny was far from intimidating, she felt her cheeks warm under his watchful eye.

"This _should _begin to heal the injured tissue of your heart," Hermione said softly.

Conjuring a dropper, she drew a blue solution from a tiny ampoule and dropped it into the goblet. The pinkish solution within began to glow phosphorescently, reflecting lavender light over her features. She swirled the goblet in her hands, the lavender solution sloshing against the sides.

"I must warn you – and normally, I wouldn't, as I've said before, but with you—" Hermione paused, turning her gaze from the cup in her hands to his face. "This is going to stop your heart for thirty seconds. You will become very light-headed and it will feel as though you're suffocating. I urge you to remain as calm as possible. Panicking will only force you to lose consciousness."

A flicker of concern flashed over Snape's face – an expression those features rarely twisted into, at least from Hermione's perspective. She turned her gaze from him to the goblet, flicking her wrist and swirling the lavender liquid within.

Severus eyed the goblet in her hands warily, but slowly, he nodded his consent. As she moved over to him, he held out his hand to take the goblet from her. She slipped it into his hand, his trembling fingers shuddering against hers. Lowering herself into the seat beside him, she laced her fingers in his, a subtle gesture that spoke volumes for the apprehensive man in the bed.

She wasn't sure if he noticed it, but his grip on her hand tightened as he drank the potion. His hold on her was so strong it was nearly painful for her, but she did not protest; he needed her support in that moment.

The goblet he held in his hand plummeted to the floor with a loud metallic crash; the hand that discarded it came to his chest, his long fingers spread out over the thin fabric of his gown. His face blanched – Hermione could nearly detect the arteries and veins that lurked beneath his pale skin – and droplets of sweat squeezed out onto his face and freckled his flesh. His breathing became ragged, raspy – panting gasps for air as he tried to fill his lungs. His skeletal hand clawed at his chest, his fingers nearly tracing the empty spaces between his ribs.

He pressed into the pillows behind him, the silence of stilled blood in his veins haunting. It was as though time stopped for a moment; the longest skipped heartbeat he had ever endured. His vision began to blur, the periphery beginning to fade to black. Hermione leaned over him, her soothing voice keeping him grounded despite his clouded vision, though the longer his heart was stilled, the farther away she sounded – almost as though he was under water.

As suddenly as it ceased, Severus' heart began pumping again. His vision began to clear and his fingers and toes warmed with heated blood once more. Breathing in deep, he drank in the air around him. His strong fingers tightened around Hermione's hand as his eyes skittered over the ceiling, his frantic breaths sucking in as much air as his lungs could contain without bursting.

"I must admit, despite how tenacious you tend to be, you follow directions quite well," Hermione said, playfully, as Snape finally steadied his frantic breaths. "You hardly panicked at all."

His dark eyes narrowed and he glared at her harmlessly. "It is not the first time I felt as though I would die."

Hermione couldn't stop the smile that crossed her lips. As she rose, Severus finally relinquished her hand, allowing her the freedom to straighten the pillows behind him. Her fingers came to stroke across his forehead, brushing the hair back from his damp forehead.

"No, I suppose it isn't," Hermione replied, moving around the bed to retrieve the goblet from the floor. "Though I wouldn't expect it gets easier with experience."

Snape released a quiet grunt in response, and Hermione cast him a warm smile. As she returned the goblet to the medicine cabinet, she also set down a second vial of a murky brown potion.

"In an hour, I need to give you this potion," she explained. "Half an hour before that, I need to examine your heart to ensure the dose I just gave you is doing its job."

Conjuring a soft towel, Hermione returned to his bedside. She smoothed the fabric over his face and neck, wiping away the sweat that freckled his body. His eyes flickered closed as she moved the cloth over his cheeks, a strong whoosh of air escaping through his nostrils.

"And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime, Sev," Hermione said, coyly, pulling her hands from him to rest against her hips. "I'm afraid I've bothered you enough for one afternoon. I'm going to return to my office and file some paperwork – plenty of patient charts that need completing, you see."

Nodding his understanding, Snape reached for the pile of journals stacked on his bedside. "Then I suppose I shall see you in half an hour, Ms. Granger."

As she closed the door behind her, Severus rested the journal atop his thighs. Releasing a soft sigh, he pulled his fingers through his hair, his gaze drifting to the open window. He could not rationalize it, but every moment he spent with his Healer, he yearned to learn more about her. His usual excuse seemed appropriate, but he was growing ever weary of using it. Indeed, she was his first kind encounter; indeed, she showed him compassion he had not known in years – but did it truly warrant the desire for her company?

She had revealed to him a simmering temper and a waspish tongue; she knew what to say when she was feeling resentful. She did not make frequent use of disparaging comments, but when she felt it appropriate, she wielded language as though it were a weapon. And as it abandoned her lips, a violent weapon it was.

She was an intriguing young woman indeed, and she was not so unlike him. She was hardly callous, nor contemptuous or vengeful, but she was cunning and she was noble, she was brave and she was dedicated. While her sorrows were juvenile – how childish a confession she confided in him earlier – he knew precisely why she endured such struggles. She cared for Weasley, and despite whether she still truly loved him, she could not abandon him.

It may just be desperation, but Severus did not find her company dreadful. Even when she caused him great discomfort – such as when she was crying in the park – her company was more desirable than the solitude he had endured for so long. The gentle strokes of her fingertips against his skin as she brushed his hair back from his face, the small hand laced in his fingertips as he endured some torturous procedure, the warmth of her eyes and the kindness of her smile… there was something hauntingly familiar about her, and yet he could not be sure the source.

When she returned, Granger brought with her another stack of journals. There was a warm smile playing about her face and as she set the short stack of periodicals among the rest of them, she withdrew her wand from the confines of her robes.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Fine," Severus replied, watching her mill about him.

With a deliberate flick of her wand, a familiar foggy shroud formed above Severus; this time, though, as his eyes surveyed it, he noticed it was much smaller and he suspected it contained only his torso. Granger lowered herself closer to the bed, and with a small surge of perversion, Severus averted his gaze from the form above him to the subtle exposure of her chest, the neckline of her robes dropping just enough to reveal the paler skin of her breasts that was hidden from the sunlight. He cursed himself quietly; forty-something and still ogling breasts!

When she moved suddenly, he focused his gaze on her face; he knew it would not do well to be caught staring at any part of her. She did not notice his careful study of her anatomy, her gaze still focused intently on the shrouded form that floated above him. He noticed the faint glowing reds that indicated the status of his injuries, and from the smile that still lingered across her lips he suspected it was good news.

"Do you see this here?" she asked, her wand prodding the cloudy shroud. "Your heart is healing. We can administer the second dose."

"Ms. Granger," Severus said, softly. "Why was that—"

"Painless? You endured the unpleasant aspect of it earlier," Granger replied, crossing her wand through the image above him. It dissipated into smoke. "The potion I administered to you half an hour ago served two purposes: it would begin the process of mending your heart while simultaneously providing the medium required to view the progress in thirty minutes."

Nodding, Severus watched her move from his bedside to the medicine cabinet, where she retrieved the vial of murky brown potion. She poured its contents into the ever-present goblet, twirling her wand above the mouth as though to mix the solution within. When she presented the cup to Severus, the solution within was no longer brown, but instead a rust orange color; he brought it to his nose, sniffing it cautiously, before bringing it to his lips and swallowing it.

Granger must have noticed the subtle tensing of Severus' chest because she allowed a small laugh to escape her. "There is no heart attack this time, Sev."

"You understand my trepidation, Ms. Granger," Severus growled, dragging his hand from his chest to the rough growth of his face. "The experience is quite unpleasant."

"As I suspected," Granger replied coolly. "Your dinner should be arriving very soon, but before it does I would like to perform another examination."

With a subtle shrug of his shoulders, Severus conveyed his indifference and reached for one of the journals he had not yet read. With the thoughtful song of her quiet humming, she smoothed her hands over his body as she studied his body. Beginning on his right side, she rolled his shoulder, extended his arm and checked for the range of his motion. She moved down to his right leg, bending it at his knee and leaning into it to ensure the flexibility of his hip. She repeated her actions on his other side, all the while Severus read from the journal.

It wasn't until she began to examine his abdomen did her movements slow. He winced as she poked her fingers into the open wounds, curling her slim digits around the edges – what she was searching for, he had no idea. He peered at her over the edge of his magazine; there was a crease pressed into her forehead and concern glowing in her amber eyes.

"Ms. Granger?"

"Sev," she said softly, turning her gaze to him. "I'm afraid I have to administer that alternative treatment I mentioned before. These wounds… they're not healing. At all. If you… if you would just tell me—"

"And how is it, exactly, you expect that I have _any _knowledge about the weapons of my attackers when I was, in fact, discovered unconscious?" Severus snarled.

Granger seemed taken aback by his sudden enmity; she physically took a step back from him, as though afraid he would strike her. Severus had grown quite weary with her constant interrogation, and his irritation was warranted. He had denied her several times already, and in a very _Gryffindor_ display of obstinacy, she persevered. Despite his enjoyment of her company, she seemed to endeavor to pester him.

"Considering you were a wizard who claimed ignorance to be one of the greatest of weaknesses, I highly doubt you _don't_ know the weaponry wielded by the wizards who nearly murdered you," Granger replied, an acidic bite to her voice. "I won't seek them out – I won't even record the weaponry. I just want to kno—"

"You have stated restoration is possible with or without the knowledge of what brought me here," Severus hissed. "And we will continue under the premise of complete ignorance. You _cannot_ know."

"If I am going to continue providing your care for the remainder of your admittance, you need to learn to trust me," Granger countered, her voice shrill.

"On the contrary. My confidence in you needs not exceed the realm of your abilities as a Healer. I neither need, nor want, to trust you." Coldly, he lifted the journal from his lap, concealing most of his face from her view.

She stiffened at his icy response; the quiet whisper of her robes against her body was the only sound in the room. The fading light of the setting sun cast a pretty orange glow across the surfaces in the room. As he peered at her above the magazine, he could see the soft reflection of light in her glossy eyes. Her chin quivered subtly – it was barely noticeable – and Severus knew he had affected her in a way she did not expect.

Her chest swelled with a tremulous breath, her shoulders broadening as she considered an acrimonious response. Her lips parted just slightly, as though she was going to speak; no sound escaped her, and she closed her mouth. With an indignant, breathy sigh, she turned to leave. Severus lowered the journal just slightly, lifting his chin to watch her disappear behind the curtain.

He did not expect her to turn to face him. He expected her to be angry, but her expression was flat, as though she felt nothing in that moment. Breathing in steadily, she steeled herself before speaking.

"I am going home. I will see you tomorrow morning, just as I will return Sunday morning, and every day following that to secure the secrecy of your identity until you are well," she said quietly, her amber eyes, glossy in the sunlight, searching his face.

With a subtle, indiscriminate nod, she turned on her heel once more and swept from the room. The door closed quietly behind her, the breeze whispering through his window brushing against the privacy curtain. The silent sound of the fabric as it swept against the floor was a painful reminder to Severus of his solitude.

Smoothing his calloused, bony hands across his face, Severus breathed in a heavy sigh. Her statement was intended to leave him feeling remorse, and for a fleeting moment, she had achieved her goal. He lowered his gaze to the journal in his lap, the emotionless mask of her face lingering in his thoughts.

Despite the fact his callousness was only intended to protect her from harm, he felt an uncomfortable twinge of regret. She had been unconditionally and impossibly kind towards him since the moment of his admission, going to such lengths to ensure his identity remain protected while she returned him to health. She understood, vaguely, the reasoning behind such secrecy (he could recall her voice as though she were in the room), but she had no grasp on the true gravity of the situation. He knew, begrudgingly, even if he wanted to disclose to her what exactly he had been doing the past six years – and what had earned him his stay in the hospital – she would be at grave risk.

Her thirst for knowledge – no matter how admirable – was not worth the risk to her life she would face were she to learn of Severus' mission. The mere fact that she was caring for him placed her in peril's way. Anything more was unthinkable, because anything more would stain his hands with her blood.

* * *

><p>Hermione managed to protect herself behind her office door before breaking down into pitiful sobs. She pressed her weight against the surface of the door, her hands flexing around her vine wood wand. She had done so much for that man – plenty more than what was expected of her – to see that he was protected and comfortable while in her care. She had turned onto him affection she was no longer so certain he deserved. She had sacrificed her free time to see to it that he received proper, secure care while she was not scheduled to work. She had confided in him in hopes he would learn that he could trust her as well.<p>

And yet, all of it had been for nothing. He insisted she had no need to know what happened to him to earn him such injuries; and even despite the fact many of his wounds were not healing, he still refused to disclose to her anything at all. He didn't trust her. He probably never would. If his intentions were to send her spiraling through an erratic flurry of emotions, he certainly succeeded.

Pulling her hands through her hair, Hermione lowered herself to the floor. She buried her face in her palms, her quiet sobs wracking her body. She could not explain her emotional reaction to what should have been expected callousness from Snape, but she could not stop the tears as they flowed down her cheeks.

She remained there in her crumpled position for longer than she should have allowed, quietly weeping into the fabric of her robes. She was no more ready to return home to Ron than she was to return to Severus' hospital room and for a fleeting moment, she considered camping out in her office for the evening.

Silently, she scoffed. She was a twenty-four-year-old woman – nearly twenty-five! – and Severus Snape still wielded the ability to reduce her to tears. It was as though he was still her dictatorial Potions professor and she the timid first year terrified to disappoint him. Slamming her fist against the floor, she released a choked laugh, hardly sincere and entirely sardonic.

Perhaps his six years of "death" had done nothing to change him; who was she to hope that it had? Slowly rising, Hermione rounded her desk, smoothing her hands along the surface. Her gaze flickered to the file she had placed in a locked drawer; flicking her wand at the lock, it quietly clicked, and the drawer slid open.

Lowering herself into the chair, Hermione fingered the thin folder of Severus Snape she had copied from the records room. Bringing it to the surface of her desk, she turned open the cover. The photograph of a younger, healthier Severus rested pinned to the folder; his dark, fathomless eyes stared up at her, his lip curling in a slight sneer as though he knew she was studying him.

"Why must you push me away?" she whispered quietly, turning the page.

Quickly, her eyes moved over the information in the file: his date of birth, his place of birth, allergies, previous injuries, and more. Hermione suspected he rarely sought treatment at a hospital after he received the Mark; after 1977, there were very few admission files. The next time he was treated – at St. Mungo's, anyway – was in 1984. He was stabbed on the right side of his chest, between his third and fourth ribs with a blade with an estimated width of four to six centimeters; the angle of insertion was awkward, puncturing the middle lobe of his lung.

Hermione brought her hand to her mouth as she read through the file; the scar she used to identify him was earned from that attack. A sad feeling washed over her, and fleetingly she wondered if he would tell her anything of the incident – though she knew she had no reason to suspect that he would. It was after Harry's parents were murdered; if she had her math correct, they would have been killed in 1981, and shortly before that Snape would have pledged his loyalty to Dumbledore. Voldemort would have already been weakened, though, and most of his followers sent to Azkaban; who would have attacked a seemingly harmless, albeit acrimonious, Hogwarts professor?

The man in the room upstairs was shrouded with mystery. And if he had his way, it would remain as such until he, once again, rested on his death bed, drinking in his final breath.

Folding the file once more, Hermione replaced it in the drawer of her desk. She did not have the energy – nor the desire – to walk home, and so instead, she turned to the hearth of her office, fisting a handful of Floo powder. Breathing in a steady breath, hesitant to return home to the same lonely apartment that seemed to be inhabited only by ghosts, she threw the powder into the grate and passed through the green flames.

As she emerged in the sitting room of her apartment, she spotted Ron in his usual perch, though he balanced an open book on his thighs. He cast her a welcoming glance before returning to the novel in his lap, and breathing a relieved sigh, Hermione lowered her purse to the floor and crossed the room to her beau.

As she lowered to the couch beside him, he folded the book closed and set it on the table. Reaching his hand to her face, he stroked the soft skin of her cheek affectionately before leaning in to kiss her. Hermione returned the gesture, willing the stiffness of her shoulders away; her body no longer reacted the way she believed it should in the presence of her fiancé, but with such lack of intimacy – she couldn't claim surprise without lying.

She couldn't explain the sudden wave of nausea that washed over her as she prepared to inform him that she would not be home for the weekend. There was something about his demeanor that evening – despite his tender kiss, he was cold, somehow – and she knew the discussion would lead nowhere pleasant. A part of her wanted to avoid the conversation entirely and simply retire for the evening, but she knew delaying the inevitable would only lead to further pain.

"Ron," Hermione began, turning her gaze from him to the blank television screen. "I'm going to be working this weekend."

Her eyes flickered closed against the violent bristle of his stiffening body. His hand abandoned her nearly immediately, his fingers curling into a fist in his lap.

"What?" Ron asked, his voice poisoned with anger. "Is this about that bloody patient?"

Turning to him, Hermione reached for him tenderly. His hand was tense and trembling beneath her gentle touch, and he only allowed her a moment before he pulled his hand from her. Hermione sighed, returning her hands to her lap, dropping her gaze to her nail beds; absently she began picking at her nails, wishing for genuine solitude.

"Ron, don't be angry. He needs me—"

"_I_ need you, Hermione!"

Allowing her eyes to flicker closed, Hermione drank in a heavy breath, steadying her flaring temper. Resting her hand against his thigh – and hardly surprised when he jerked it from her reach – she searched his features. His pale, freckled face was twisted into an ugly, angry grimace, his ears flaring red. His arms were at his sides, as though he was ready to burst from the couch.

"Ronald, don't be foolish. You don't understand, he is very ill—"

"And there are other Healers that are more than capable of handling him," Ron spat, rising from the couch suddenly. "You've worked late every day this week, Hermione!"

"What has gotten into you?" Hermione cried, springing to her feet. "This is totally uncalled for!"

"Hardly," Ron growled, pacing before the television. "Maybe I wanted to do something this weekend."

Hermione nearly scoffed; Ron never wanted to do anything anymore. It was as though it was torture to even visit with Harry – and briefly, she wondered if Harry ever actually stopped by to see him. If he hadn't, she could hardly blame him; half the time, even Hermione dreaded returning to her apartment because she hadn't the energy to deal with the man.

"I'm sorry, Ron. There is no discussion; it's done," Hermione said, firmly. "_He_ needs me more than you do."

She was not expecting Ron to storm off into their bedroom; she expected even less the quiet click of the lock that accompanied the violent slam of the door. While she could have easily unlocked the door, it was the silent gesture that really discouraged her from entering the bedroom. Lowering herself to the couch once more, Hermione released a heavy sigh. His reaction was far from warranted and even more irrational.

Leaning into the couch, Hermione allowed her head to roll against the back, her eyes staring into nothingness. There was a faint sting burning the backs of her eyes and her hands were trembling. A warm wetness dripped into her ears; she brought her hands to her face, brusquely brushing away the tears. She smoothed her soft palm across her forehead, combing her fingers through her hair. Between Snape's callous dismissal and Ron's irrational response, Hermione was feeling overwhelmingly hopeless, emotional, and lonely.

Ever since the day she began treating the poor man, she wondered what sorrows Snape had endured in the past seven years of his life. She knew they must have been far greater than anything she could comprehend. Yet, as she sat alone on the couch of her apartment, the forlorn feeling that filled her in that moment was incomparable to anything she had experienced before. Despite the man who rested in her bed at that very moment, Hermione felt completely alone.

She mused that it was possible she understood precisely how Severus Snape was feeling as he lay in his hospital bed. But for a moment, she wondered if she was not feeling worse; while he was quite literally alone, she possessed the heart of someone. And yet the feeling of lonesome that plagued her every evening as she entered her own home…

* * *

><p>Severus was sitting in his bed, reclining against the stack of pillows he conjured to support his aching spine. Despite her wonderful massage, the stiffness in his body returned overnight – he highly doubted it would ever dissipate if he remained bedridden. In his lap, the latest edition of <em>Alchemical Age <em>lay opened, his dark eyes scanning the articles hungrily. Absently, he sipped from a steaming mug of black coffee, and a plate of fried eggs and toast rested by his thigh. His breakfast that morning seemed to arrive earlier than usual, though it was possible his Healer was late. With a cynical snort, Severus realized he based his entire concept of time on her punctual habits.

A quiet rapping sounded from the door, and – not wishing to violate routine, of course – Severus ignored it. If it was his Healer, she would enter regardless of his permission; and if it was anyone else – though she must have, at some point, requested he receive no other guests, seeing as even the nurse that visited his room the day he was admitted had never made another appearance – he would much rather them vacate his room immediately anyway.

Shifting his weight in the bed, attempting to remedy the stiffness in his legs and the tingling feeling arising in his lower back, Severus winced as he flexed his abdomen; an open wound, too stubborn to heal, gaped open.

"Good morning," he heard her call from the doorway. There was something peculiar in her voice, an intonation of irritation masked with cheer. "How are you feeling this morning?"

Holding his hand to her in a silencing gesture, Severus finished the paragraph he had been reading before looking up to her. She released a quiet 'tut' in disapproval, only furthering his suspicion that something was amiss, and while he knew it was none of his business – she had been doing strange things to him in the past few days he had been in her company – he couldn't help his piqued curiosity. Surely, she was not still sour over his umbrage the night previous?

When he finally raised his dark gaze to her, he brought the steaming mug of coffee to his lips, sipping quietly, watching her over the lip of the mug. There was shadowing around her eyes that was not there the day previous, as though she had a rather wretched night's sleep. Her fists rested against her hips, broadening her chest in an indignant way, and for a brief moment, he thought of Lily Evans. A small smile flickered across his face, just fleetingly, but she caught it.

"Despite your silence, you seem well," she commented, lowering her hands to her sides and coming to his bedside, lowering herself into the chair. "By now, I'm sure, you're aware of the routine. Is there anything I can get for you before we start?"

His ebony eyes flickered to the urinal, and she followed his gaze. "Ah, I suppose it would be beneficial if I taught you how to dispose of this. We can take care of that in a moment, unless you are in need of it now?"

"No," he growled, his oily voice finally beginning to regain its usual strength.

"Very well." Standing, she donned a pair of gloves before beginning her examination.

As she bustled about him, the breeze from the open window mingled with her scent, and it drew a cloud of pleasant aroma to his nose. Her perfume, her shampoo, and the pleasant scent that was simply her, combined with the flowering blossoms and fresh air from outside the window, created an absolutely enthralling redolence as it lingered before him. His depraved instinct drew his gaze to her subtly exposed breast, the modest neckline of her Healer robes offering just a teasing glimpse of the form that lurked beneath, and the combination of her alluring fragrance and the hidden promises of a voluptuous, beautiful, feminine form nearly inspired an unforgiveable reaction in the saturnine man, and he turned his head towards the ceiling, forcing his thoughts to grimmer places. It did not help that he could not keep from recalling the moment he ejaculated merely to the thought of her.

As she removed his gown, rolling it down to his lap – Severus praying to whatever gods believed placing them together would be even remotely entertaining – she exposed the various unhealing wounds. Her amber eyes flickered over the lacerations, her fingers delicately slipping along the edges; Severus grimaced as she pressed against the damaged tissue.

"Don't move," she commanded, and turning to the medicine cabinet she withdrew the devilish solution he had grown to abhor. Conjuring a sterile dropper, she cast him an apologetic glance, offering him the opportunity to prepare himself for the wave of agony that was to wash over him. Severus grasped the edges of the mattress, awaiting his torture.

"I thought you decided an alternative treatment was necessary," Severus growled, his eyes flickering between the precariously positioned dropper and the wounds she intended to treat.

"As you may recall," her voice was strangely acerbic, as though she had no desire to converse with him very much that morning. "I also noted that treatment was very limiting. I wish to exhaust all other options first."

"So you are postponing the inevitable?"

"Last I was aware, _Sev_," the acidic emphasis she placed on his name elicited a strange shiver through Severus' body. "You were not a Healer."

As she squeezed a few drops into the wounds, the solution began to foam, the pale smoke lifting from his flesh. Severus groaned in pain, his knuckles paling as he grasped tight to the mattress, his grip so fierce it was as though he was trying to transfer the pain from his body to the furniture below him. Once the pain subsided, she leveled her wand at the wound, recited the sing-song incantation.

His curiosity at her strange mood urged him to initiate a conversation, and the part of him that was very Slytherin convinced him she would answer his questions, if only because she was eager to earn his trust. While their conversation may have continually deepened with each passing day, Severus was rarely one to initiate it; surely this small detail would not go unnoticed by his Healer – and he had, after all, dismissed her quite harshly the night before. If he knew Hermione Granger – and, if she had not changed much within the past seven years – he knew she would be willing to cast aside their differences if it meant talking with him on an equal basis.

"May I pose… an inquiry?" he began, the oily resonance of his voice an intentional tool.

"Yes, of course," Granger replied, her hands gingerly pressing in on healing wounds.

He was impressed that she had concealed so well her surprise at his speech – there was a slight shrill pitch to her voice, but it was the only indication she was at all eager to speak with him – but it truly only aided in his desire.

"Something seems…" The deliberate pause was crucial to pique her interests. "…amiss with you, Ms. Granger."

If he hadn't been so hungrily seeking her reaction, he may have missed the incredibly subtle pause of her hands in her examination. She had removed his left leg from the warmth of his covers, her hands pressing in against his inner thigh, palpating his femoral pulse. She released the pressure just slightly at his question, her eyes still fixated on his thigh. And then she pressed firmly against the artery once more; it was a movement so fleeting, he wouldn't have even noticed it if he weren't searching for a sign.

"That is quite observant of you, Sev," she replied, a sudden coldness to her voice that he had nearly forgotten she could muster. She had only brandished it a handful of times before, and he had only been witness to it through the shadows; it was the tone she had used with Draco Malfoy. It was painfully familiar to Severus, as well, having heard a very similar intonation in Lily's voice the day she parted ways with him.

"As it turns out, I am quite incapacitated at the current time…" Severus said, silkily. "I would have no choice but to act as an attentive audience."

She had moved around the bed as he spoke to her, her small hands manipulating his long leg. He was vaguely aware of the ache in his joints, something he had come to accept as an artifact of his age and the daily abuse his body endured. With his leg bent at the knee, her hand supporting his foot as she tested his flexibility and joint rotation, she leaned into the appendage, her eyes fixed on his face. A small crease pressed itself into her smooth forehead, and she seemed to be considering his offer.

Under her suspicious eye, he gently shrugged his shoulders, his eyebrows raised in a nonchalant, lackadaisical expression. Her hands travelled up his abdomen to his arm, where she extended his arm to his side, bending it at the elbow and then rotating it at the shoulder. Her careful eyes studied his face intently, as though judging his motives. When she released his limb, he offered another shrug, finally turning from her to retrieve the journal she placed on his table. He pulled a piece of toast from the plate there as well, picking it apart and eating it slowly.

"You'll forgive my suspicion, Sev," she said softly. "I have never known you to_ willingly_ concern yourself with the personal affairs of your students."

"I thought it was quite obvious, Ms. Granger," he replied with a similarly soft tone. "You are no longer my student."

"Despite your declaration yesterday evening?" The harsh intonation of her voice was not missed on him; she intended the comment to sting subtly, and while it was a well-played move, Severus simply smirked.

"It is not you posing the question, now, is it?"

For a moment, she seemed to consider him. Her warm amber eyes glittered in the bright morning light, flickering over his face as though desperately searching for his sincerity. She circled the bed, retrieving his standard cocktail of medications from the cabinet. As she handed him the goblet, she lowered herself into the chair beside him.

"You are going to think I am the most unprofessional Healer in this hospital," she said, an apologetic tone in her voice. She sunk her face into her hands, her fingers combing through the crown of her barely-manageable hair.

As Severus swallowed his usual prescription potions, his dark gaze studied her face over the lip of the goblet. She was slumped forward in the chair, her elbows resting against her knees and a very teasing view of her cleavage peeked out above the neckline of her robes. She was not looking at him, though; her gaze was fixated on the floor, a heavy sigh swelling her chest.

"As much as I am loath to admit it, you and I share a certain intimacy that is impossible for others to understand," Severus said, softly; she retrieved the goblet from him, rising to replace it on the cabinet. "Not only have you believed for a significant portion of your life that you witnessed my death, you are the sole bearer of the knowledge that I am, in fact, alive. We are, for lack of a better word, inexorably connected."

She stood with her back to him, her hands fussing with the various vials of his medicine cabinet. He suspected she was chewing her lip as she always did when she was anxious; a small nod lifted her chin and she turned towards him. Her jaw tensed, the subtle tremor of the musculature in her face twitching as she clenched her teeth.

"I suppose you're right."

Her statement was followed by a long pause, and after awhile Severus returned his attention to the journal in his lap, his teeth slowly pulling apart the remaining piece of toast. He knew she was still considering his offer; the metaphorical wheels of her mind seemed to be incessantly turning as her amber eyes surveyed his features.

She finally returned to the chair beside him, the whisper of her robes and the quiet groan of the chair as it supported her weight violating the silence of the room. There were several instances where she drew in a sharp breath, suggesting she was going to begin speaking; he turned his eyes to her subtly, and when she seemed to sink into her chair once more without a word, he returned his attention to the article he was reading.

"I am seriously considering leaving Ron," she said finally, her voice so rushed the words barely registered as separate entities. Her voice faltered on his name, a weakened crack as she formed the sound, and he knew that at any moment, she may begin weeping.

It was certainly not his intention when he began prying into her personal life. He should have known it was a topic he should have left well enough alone, but the door was opened, and he knew he couldn't back down. Slowly turning his face to her, his dark eyes scanning her features, he offered her a simple and slow nod, inviting her to continue.

"When I finally arrived home last night – and I travelled by Floo, I couldn't even muster the energy to walk home, even though it's barely a kilometer away – he was sitting there on the couch. Like always," she confessed, a heavy sigh heaving her chest. "I can only handle so much. I've seen all the same as he has; granted, he lost his brother, but even George is doing better than Ron. Six years ago! There's no call for it!"

Severus nodded. Uncertain of an appropriate reaction, he forced a sympathetic expression, and watched her as she leaned back in her chair, her arms hanging loosely to her sides.

"I told him I was working this weekend and he was very upset about it," she said, her voice weak.

"If I were so bold to assume," Severus growled, his fingers curling the edges of the journal. "It did not seem as though he were one to do much on the weekend, anyway."

"That is exactly why I thought his reaction unwarranted," Hermione said softly, an icy bitterness chilling her voice. "He locked me out of our bedroom, and though I could have easily unlocked the door—"

"Volumes are spoken in one's behaviors, Ms. Granger," Severus interjected. "Our language is very limiting. Often, our actions are all we have."

"And his intention was quite clear last night." Hermione released a rather unladylike snort. "'Sod off.'"

Nodding slowly, Severus returned his gaze to the pages before him. A cool breeze drifted through the open window, curling the privacy curtain as it was caught in its draft. Hermione's hair twirled around her face as she lowered her gaze to her lap. She was nervously picking at her fingers, and as Severus watched her, a small, subtle smile tugged at his mouth.

"I don't want his family to believe I am a wretched person for abandoning him," she said sadly, a sigh escaping her.

"If it is your life, Ms. Granger; you should live it for you." There was more truth in his words than she would ever recognize. "Life is painfully short, and it does not do one well to live by the wishes of others."

Her gaze lifted to him, her eyes wide as though she was surprised he would offer her any sort of consolation whatsoever; he could not blame her, either, as his correspondence with her had been unpredictable at best. He held her gaze only for a moment before returning his attention to the journal in his hands. She released a soft sigh, weighted beyond all recognition, her small hands wringing in her lap.

"What would you do?" she asked quite suddenly, the rushed tone of her voice pressing her words more rapidly than she intended.

His flickering gaze focused on a single word in the article he had been absently reading, the question registering in his mind and requiring much longer than a moment's notice to answer. Slowly, he lifted his face to hers, his furrowed brow exaggerating the fine wrinkles around his eyes and deepening the lines of his forehead. Folding his hands on top of the journal, he simply considered her for a moment. Her pretty face seemed aged in her distress; the shadows around her eyes and the wrinkle pressed into her furrowed brow matured her appearance.

"You are asking the wrong man, Ms. Granger," he growled, turning his attention back to the periodical in his lap. "I am a hypocrite."

"Yes, you are," Hermione replied coldly. Severus' eyes narrowed as he shot her a glare, but she simply offered him a familiar lackadaisical shrug. "But we are, of course, speaking hypothetically."

"Hypothetically speaking," Severus began, clearing his throat of the gravelly irritation that began to scratch at the tissue. "I would not have been in such a situation in the first place." Returning his gaze to the journal in his lap, he tore off a piece of toast in his teeth, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Hermione released an exasperated sigh, standing from her chair and turning a shoulder to her patient. She reached for his chart at the end of the bed, conjuring a quill and recording her notes, a scornful glare cast over the brim of the folder at the man in the bed. Severus could nearly feel the simmering anger that threatened to burst from her small form.

"I will bestow upon you an… interesting piece of wisdom once offered to me by an old friend," Severus offered, a hint of caution in his voice.

He always took the advice of Albus with a grain of salt, never truly certain whether the Machiavellian man's intentions were pure. He watched for her expression; the tension in her shoulders relaxed just slightly, and the scratching of her quill ceased as she stilled her hand.

"Flip a coin. I have one here, if you'd like."

The folder lowered enough to expose her puzzled expression, her furrowed brow pressing that small crease deeper and deeper into her forehead. He wondered, fleetingly, if she was aware of how expressive her eyes truly were.

"As the coin is in the air, you will realize that your path forward is much clearer."

"Are you suggesting that this is so simple a decision that I could solve it with such a menial act?" Hermione's voice was harsh, venomous with anger.

She slammed the folder down on his bedside table, the force of air breezing the pages of his journal; the silverware rattled violently against the plate. There was a subtle tremor in her hands as she held them at her sides, balled into fists.

He shook his head slowly, her anger poisoning his own sense of calm. He lifted his mug of coffee, the black liquid having cooled since she entered, and he sipped from it as he watched her. There was a glittering in her gaze and as he studied her face, he noticed her eyes were brimming with tears as she towered over him.

"It's an interesting psychological phenomenon, really," Severus amended, lowering the mug to his lap, wrapping his hands around the cooling ceramic. "You may be uncertain of what you should do, but as soon as you believe you've left the option to Fate's curious workings, you understand precisely what it is you wish to happen." Setting the cup beside the plate on his bedside table, he flicked through the journal to the page he had been reading. "We, as human beings, function in a very simplistic manner. We need only food and water to survive, but happiness seems to be incredibly valuable to a life well-lived. It often guides our choices – even subconsciously. Irrationally."

As he was speaking, Hermione had slowly lowered herself into her chair once more, her gaze carefully studying his features, painfully searching for his sincerity. Her fury with him had all but dissipated, her tremulous hands finally stilled; and as he spoke, she simply listened with an intent ear.

Slipping his fingers into the small breast pocket of his hospital gown, Severus removed the fake Galleon she had given him what seemed eons ago. Holding it between his first two fingers, he extended his hand to her, forcing a compassionate smile (and it was a challenging feat, indeed – he wasn't sure if it was _ever_ an expression he sincerely wore). She leaned back in her chair, her eyes flickering from his face to his hand and then back to his face. Her hand cautiously met his, and she pulled the coin from his grasp, her fingers brushing against his, an incredulous expression haunting her face.

"Face for leaving," he suggested, his attention turned to the journal in his lap.

Hermione nodded slowly, and as she set the coin on her thumb, her face blanched as though her heart ceased functioning. She flicked it, her eyes carefully following its path into the air; it was as though the coin turned in the air under a slowing charm, rolling circles infinitely while her mind whirled, her heart fluttered, and her stomach churned. She thought she may vomit as the coin twirled in the air, never seeming to fall under the influence of gravity.

Severus, feeling mischievously playful, cast a silent charm that maintained the perpetual roll of the coin in the air. Hermione's face seemed to drain of its color as her amber eyes stared intently on the coin. He couldn't stop the quiet chuckle that escaped him as he heard her breath catch in her throat; he peered at her from the corner of his eye, his mouth tugging into a satisfied smirk. Her eyes narrowed into a glare as she turned her gaze to him; while she was distracted, he released the coin from his charm and it finally dropped to her lap. With a start, her gaze lowered to the coin on her thigh, and she breathed an ambiguous sigh.

"Well?" Severus queried, his gaze still scanning the contents of the journal.

"Face," she whispered.

"And more importantly, which did you find yourself pining for?" Severus pressed, his flickering gaze frozen on the page.

"Face," Hermione admitted, her voice wavering with the threat of tears.

Severus was wiser than to risk upsetting her further, and so he said nothing. He lowered the journal to rest against his legs and watched her face, her proud features slowly crumbling. Her amber eyes brimmed with tears, and as she slowly raised her gaze from the coin on her leg to his face, the first set of tears leaked onto her cheeks.

"Do you still love him, Ms. Granger?" Severus asked, his dark eyes searching her face.

She bated her breath, her lower lip trembling as she held his gaze, tears trailing down her pretty face. He knew the gravity of the question; the pure weight and significance of her answer would truly mark the remainder of her choices involving the young man. It was not a simple answer; it was never an answer of "yes" or "no." And as her eyes flickered over his features, hungrily studying the defining characteristics of his countenance, she chewed her lip, a subtle tremor of her chin conveying all he needed to know of the thoughts that ran through her head.

Lowering her gaze to her lap, she picked up the Galleon and placed it on the open page. He did not look away from her, and she gently, barely shook her head in her reply. The word that escaped her parted lips was so quiet, so soft, it was a whisper of a whisper: "No."

Before she could lose her composure, she rose from the chair, bidding her patient a good morning and informing him she would return in a couple hours for his next dose of medicine. And then she was gone, the quiet click of the door behind her abandoning Severus in his hospital room, her lingering scent mingling with his own confounded emotions.


	6. Chapter 6

Rating: M – inappropriate for readers under the age of 16; contains scenes of explicit sexuality and violence.  
>Disclaimer: Characters and settings ©J.K. Rowling.<p>

Author's Note: Okay, you guys, I am so sorry this has taken so long to finally post. I have been absolutely swamped with coursework this semester and I have little time to breathe, let alone do anything for enjoyment. For those of you who are frustrated I updated my other fic and neglected this one: I have about 10 – 15 chapters written for _Matters of the Heart_. I haven't been working on it; I just have the chapters written out from when I was writing non-stop over the summer. This fic, unfortunately, I don't have so much readily available. When I upload these chapters, I want them to be perfect – I don't want to be second-guessing my choices in the storyline. So it takes a lot longer to finish a chapter. And I'm sorry! Forgive me!

Author's Note 2: For purposes of this chapter, any sexual encounters occur between individuals who are of the age of consent.

**Potions, Plans, and Second Chances**

K. Marie

**Chapter 6**

Hermione did not honestly expect her patient to answer her quiet knock, but when she cracked open the door and she heard ragged breaths and muffled sobs, her heart leapt into her throat. She hadn't meant to, but when the door closed behind her it nearly slammed, her anxiety inspiring strength in her actions she had not intended.

She hurried around the curtain, her wand wielded and ready to intervene; as Severus was revealed to her, her hand slowly dropped to her side, the wand nearly slipping from her fingers and falling to the floor.

Snape was lying still in his bed but his chest was heaving with raspy breaths, tears coursing down his sallow cheeks. His forehead glittered in the dim light of the early morning, a thin film of sweat coating his face. Taking a cautious step forward, Hermione tucked her wand behind her ear. Quiet cries escaped the otherwise motionless man, his panting breaths expanding his emaciated chest and exaggerating the thin ribs that pressed through the pallid flesh.

As he escaped his paralytic sleep, his body began to flail violently as the throes of his nightmare washed over him. Hermione pressed her hand firmly against his shoulder, and his eyes opened suddenly, widened in his panic. His strong hand wrapped tightly around her wrist, his dark eyes skittering over his surroundings before coming to settle on her.

"Sev," Hermione said, calmly. "You were having a nightmare."

He visibly relaxed, a calming sigh spreading over his entire body. He relinquished her wrist, his hand coming to hover in the air between them for a long moment. His eyes moved from her to the walls surrounding him, and he brought his trembling hand to his face, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"Ms. Granger," he growled, his voice still heavy with sleep.

His fingers roamed the bed, fisting a handful of blanket into his hands as though confirming he was actually among the waking. His dark eyes flickered over Hermione's countenance and as she furrowed her brow, leaning in close to him, she smoothed her hand over his damp forehead, brushing his hair from his face.

Her voice was tender as her worried amber eyes searched his face. "Is everything all right? Can I get you anything?" Her soft fingertips smoothed over the shadowed skin beneath his eyes, brushing away the tears that lingered there.

His jagged gasps finally slowed to even, sustainable breaths; as he looked at Hermione, his hand lifted from the bed just slightly as though he sought to reach to her. When she glanced at his fingers, he seemed to reconsider his behavior, lowering the limb to the bed once more and curling the edge of the blanket.

"I am… fine," he growled. With a jerk of his head, he recoiled from her touch; with a small sigh, Hermione turned away from him.

"I don't suppose you're the type that likes to discuss your dreams," Hermione mused, pulling gloves over her hands.

He was silent for a moment and Hermione could feel the heat of his gaze on her neck. As soon as she turned towards him, his oily voice crawled along her skin, sending a shiver through her bones.

"I would loathe disappointing your expectations, Ms. Granger."

With a small smile, Hermione rolled her eyes. Her hands delicately loosened the modesty ribbon securing his patient robe. She fingered the unhealing wounds, a wrinkle pressing into her forehead; quiet grunts escaped the man as she pressed against the sore injuries. Drawing her lip into her teeth, she chewed it pensively, her fingers roaming against the edges of the gaping wound.

"I am going to attempt something," Hermione began, flickering her eyes to his face. "If you consent."

Lifting an eyebrow, Severus peered at her over the newspaper he acquired from the bedside table. After a quiet moment, Hermione realized he was not going to respond to her; his ebony eyes, boring into her gaze, conveyed all the conversation he was willing to express.

"I'm going to apply the healing tonic once more to the wounds and apply stitches," Hermione explained. "I am hesitant to use the ingested healing potion, because its use is so limited and I am restricted to how many doses I can administer… it is very much a desperate measure, and I want to exhaust all other options first."

"If it is what you believe to be necessary, Ms. Granger," Snape said, his oily voice resonating through her. "I will – despite my better instinct – trust your expertise." His statement was hardly acerbic; she detected a flash of warmth flicker through his fathomless eyes.

She reflected his kind – yet absent – smile, her lips parting in a small grin. She turned from him, her hands rummaging quickly through the medicine cabinet to retrieve the small ampoule. She left his chest exposed to the cool breeze drafting through the window, his nipples tightening to hardened peaks as it brushed against his warm flesh. As she turned back, her face was erubescent; her amber eyes scanned his features, from his dark, half-lidded eyes, to the bare, pale skin covering his frail chest, to the sinewy muscles that tied themselves to the bones of his arms. Despite his fragility, his debility, there was something undeniably strong lurking beneath his sallow skin – something Hermione was drawn to. Even though she knew she shouldn't be.

She swept to his bedside, conjuring the familiar dropper and the utensils required to apply the stitches – something she would never resort to magic for, as it was not a traditional wizarding treatment – and she leaned over him. His inky hands immediately relinquished the newspaper, instead curling his digits around the edge of the mattress. The first droplet of the potion hissed as soon as it contacted his damaged flesh; she heard Severus' teeth grind and a low, guttural groan escape his throat.

She hurried her application of the potion, the grasp of his fingers tightening on the mattress until his skin was nearly translucent. She knew as soon as the sibilance silenced his pain would subside, but every second he was forced to endure it was equally as agonizing – though emotionally, of course – for her.

Her next task, though, was equally as uncomfortable, and she suspected Snape realized it as well. As soon as she threaded her surgical needle and leaned onto the bed for support – the potion she had applied had a myriad of effects, one of which being sterilization of the surrounding tissue – she steadied her hand above the severest of wounds and cast her patient a forewarning glance.

"Unfortunately," Hermione began, softly, her voice laced with apology. "I cannot administer an anesthetic because of its adverse reaction with the healing tonic."

"I am aware, Ms. Granger," Severus hissed, his dark eyes lingering on her face for a moment as she perched above him.

"I _am_ sorry, Sev," she whispered, an unusual watering brimming her eyes. "I hate to cause you so much pain."

"I did not suspect you were a sadist, Ms. Granger," he replied, softly. There was an appealing intonation haunting his voice that Hermione did not know how to interpret. "Though you _would _be more interesting."

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, and Hermione mirrored it, despite her flushing cheeks. She returned her attention to the laceration beneath her, her smile quickly fading as she recalled her task at hand. A prickle of sweat coalesced between her shoulder blades, a single drop rolling down the length of her spine. She felt Snape's hand brush against her thigh as he tightened his grip around the edge of the mattress, and a tiny fluttering erupted in her lower stomach that she could not explain… nor ignore.

"Take a deep breath," Hermione instructed firmly, positioning the needle.

As soon as Snape obeyed, she pressed the bevel into his flesh, lacing the suture through the lip of the wound. The man beneath her cursed, his entire body tensing as the needle punctured his flesh, drawing together the edges of the wound. In comparison to the healing potion she had to administer, she knew the stitches paled; but it was not a comfortable procedure, and his hissed profanities and muscle tension was certainly warranted.

With every puncture of her needle, a tiny droplet of blood squeezed onto the surface of his pallid flesh. She drew together the lips of the wounds, the sutures serving a purpose not so unlike that of a zipper. His quiet curses rang through her ears, each gentle stab tearing at her own heart just slightly until she felt as though there was nothing left of her.

What seemed like an eternity later, Hermione had finally finished sealing together his wounds. With a wave of her wand and a whispered "_Tergeo_," she cleansed the puncture sites of oozing blood. Wishing to avoid the very likely reality of disrupting the new sutures, she did not want to resort to manual cleansing; magic was much more appropriate. Looking up to her patient, his face was twisted into an agonized grimace; she extended her hand to his face, gently stroking the rough skin of his cheek.

"I'm going to administer another analgesic," Hermione offered. "And then I'll be on my way."

With a quiet groan, Snape nodded slowly. Hermione gestured for him to pull his gown over his chest, and slowly, he did as directed. Turning to the medicine cabinet, Hermione retrieved a few small vials, mixing them into the ever-present goblet. She offered it to the saturnine man, his callused fingertips brushing against hers as he accepted it from her. She watched him as he swallowed it, returning the goblet to her waiting hands.

"I'll be back in a little while, Sev," Hermione said softly. "I don't wish to bother you anymore."

"I want to go to the park again," he interjected, calmly; as she studied his features, though, something burned in his eyes – something she didn't recognize.

Breathing in a deep sigh, she considered him for a moment from the foot of the bed. She chewed her lip pensively, her hand rising to the back of her neck; the soft pads of her hands were cool compared to the heat radiating from her neck, the nervousness elicited by manually stitching the man before her having drawn sweat through her pores.

"Surely you are not the only competent Healer the hospital has staffed on the weekend, Ms. Granger," Snape added, coolly, when it seemed she was going to deny his request.

"That may be true, Sev, but—"

"You were the one who claimed foolish wand-waving has its merits, Ms. Granger."

Eyeing him suspiciously, Hermione rested her hands against her hips. "I can see you are quite passionate about this."

"If you were confined—"

"Of course," Hermione said, warmly. "Allow me to get the wheelchair."

* * *

><p>Severus could not explain his sudden desire for Hermione's company. As the stinging in his wounds subsided and the Healer turned to vacate his room, it was as though his lips formed the words of their own accord. When she did not reject him – though her hesitancy in doing so was quite apparent – he felt himself breathe a relieved sigh.<p>

As she returned to his room with the wheelchair, there was a certain glow that surrounded her he could not explain; it was as though she knew he was desperate for her company. She brandished her wand, quiet words singing the incantations for the charms he knew would ensure the possibility of the time spent outside. The feeling of weightlessness that carried him gracefully to the chair was almost like freedom, and for a fleeting moment, Severus did not feel so maddened by his dependence on her.

"If you weren't so mysterious, a trip outdoors would not be such an event," Hermione said softly.

"As though the additional effort is exhaustive," Severus growled in response.

Bringing her wand to the top of his skull, Hermione tapped his head gently; a warm trickling sensation traveled the length of his spine and Severus knew he was fading from view. Turning her wand on herself, Hermione whispered the same incantation, and they safely were on their way.

Once they wheedled their way through the busy entrance hall of the hospital, Severus breathed in the fresh air, drinking in the sense of freedom that accompanied it. They did not idle on the sidewalk for long; Hermione seemed to understand Severus' desire to visit the park once again. She followed the wheelchair as it led the path to the familiar bench, as though he experienced a memory there he wished to relive.

As the wheelchair seemed to park itself beside the bench, Hermione stood above him, her face betraying her curiosity. She seemed intrigued that they would return there, but after a moment of simply studying the man below her, she joined his side, lowering onto the bench beside him.

The park was much busier that morning than the day previous, which was far from surprising. As his dark eyes scanned the landscape before him, bodies spread out over the grass enjoying the pleasant summer air. The wind bristled the leaves in the trees, brushing tenderly against his face and feeling luxurious on his skin. It carried with it the scent of flora, freshly mowed grass and pond water; Hermione's scent mingled in amongst the aroma of nature, and Severus drank it in.

His eyes flickered open and Severus turned his attention to the woman beside him. She wasn't looking at him; instead, her gaze was fixated in the distance, though Severus doubted she was really seeing anything at all. Her bottom lip was swollen and raw from where she chewed it, but strangely, Severus found the habit endearing. A few stray tendrils of hair dangled around her face, the mass secured at the nape of her neck. An impulse coursed through him to reach to her face, tucking the hair behind her ear – as she had done to him countless times before.

"You seem to be in… higher spirits than this morning, Ms. Granger," Severus said, softly.

She nodded brusquely, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth and chewing on the injured tissue. A drop of blood oozed from the sore and as though she suddenly noticed the self-inflicted wound, she brought her fingers to her lip. Her eyes flickered to her crimson fingertips and she dragged her tongue across the pink petal of her bottom lip.

"I compartmentalize," Hermione admitted finally, turning to look at him. "It does no good to dwell."

"That is quite wise of you, Ms. Granger," Severus replied.

Lowering her gaze to her lap, Hermione picked at her fingernails. She sniffled quietly, as though attempting to stifle the onset of tears. Despite his better instinct, Severus extended his hand to her, his strong, callused hand coming to rest on top of hers. Her gaze lifted from her lap and a small smile tugged at her mouth.

"You must do what will make _you_ happiest, Ms. Granger," Severus whispered. "You cannot live your life for others."

She nodded, as though she agreed, her chin quivering just slightly as she studied his features, her amber eyes flickering over his face. Her eyes were shiny, as though it would only be a moment before they were brimming with tears; tearing her gaze from his face, she looked out across the park.

"I can't allow my personal life to infect my work." With a small sigh, she shifted her legs. "It has… I've allowed it to go too far already."

Severus abandoned her face to look out across the park. Her soft hand came to his forearm, and the warmth of her flesh seeming to melt his skin in a pleasant way. He returned his gaze to her to find her studying him with glossy eyes.

"I'm sorry I have confided in you all of this," Hermione said quietly, smoothing her fingertips over his forearm delicately.

"It is not as though you must worry whether your secret is safe," Severus mused, a small smirk crossing his lips. "I am supposed to be dead. Your secret could not be safer."

Returning his hand to his lap, Severus turned his gaze from her face to the view before them. Above them, the sky was graying with clouds; golden rays of the sun crept through the cracks, but the warmth from the sunlight was fading fast. An angry breeze swept through the trees above them, the leaves bristling violently against the sudden gust. The park visitors began rising from their blankets and collecting their belongings, preparing to depart for the incoming storm.

"You know how you've mentioned… our connection, Sev?" Hermione asked, turning her gaze to him. It was a rhetorical question, he knew, and she continued without his answer. "It's as though I _feel_ it. As though there is a part of me that recognizes that connection, as though it was a tangible thing."

Severus knew quite well of what she spoke. He had begun wondering on several occasions himself whether his desire for her company was more than just desperation. He said nothing, and simply nodded his response.

"I… I feel foolish, you know," Hermione said, softly. "I am supposed to be professional but with you…" She lowered her gaze to her lap. "With you, it's different. It _is_ tangible, our connection. It's changed _everything_."

Again, as though of its own accord, Severus' hand reached for her. Strong, rough fingers tangled within hers and his dark eyes passed over her face; her cheeks were rosy though he doubted it had anything to do with the cool wind whipping between them. He squeezed gently, clearing his throat gruffly before beginning to speak.

"Indeed, Ms. Granger," Severus growled. "I believe there is… I believe there is more to it than we are aware."

The silence that settled between them was comforting, as though a certain understanding was finally reached. Severus knew Hermione's mind must have been whirling – he _had_ shown her a sign of empathy, and surely she was convinced he was not capable of such an emotion – and in her silence, she bristled; her body seemed to stiffen as she sat beside him, her gaze averted, her arms tensed.

Severus pulled a trembling hand through his hair, combing his fingers through its length. The Healer beside him released a soft sigh; just from her disposition it was clear she wished to ask him something, and yet she seemed hesitant to begin. Silence was not befitting her in that moment; her fingers kept fumbling with a fistful of fabric, her leg bouncing as though through it coursed an energy of its own.

"For Merlin's sake, Ms. Granger," Severus growled. "If there is something you would like to say, out with it. I can no longer sit here anticipating your spontaneous combustion."

Hermione didn't seem to expect his sudden outburst and as she turned to him, her amber eyes were widened in her surprise. Something flickered over her countenance he couldn't quite interpret, its presence too fleeting.

"Harry told me," she began cautiously, averting her eyes from his face to her wringing hands. "Your Patronus is a doe. The same as—"

"His mother's," Severus interjected, and despite the sibilant tone she was most likely expecting, he was calm.

His subtle gesture indeed opened the floodgates. The smallest of smirks tugged at his cheeks and he lowered his gaze to his hands for a moment, his black eyes surveying the callused pads of his palms. He displayed to her an act of compassion; she must have believed it was the sign she had been searching for.

"I just… I was wondering…"

Turning his gaze to her, Severus allowed her to witness the small smile that parted his lips. Her desperation to understand him filled the man with a strange feeling, a warm feeling. She was genuinely interested in _knowing _him, despite his callous dismissal and acerbic disposition. Despite the range of emotions he no doubt inspired within her. Despite his declaration that he neither needed nor desired to trust her, she persisted. There was something quite different about the woman seated beside him, and while, as her professor, he often suspected it, she was only just beginning to prove him right.

For a moment, Severus considered indulging her curiosity and granting her the favor of learning something about him. It was an innocent question – he knew she simply wished to know the memory for which he conjured his Patronus – and it was far from imperative to his secret. It would cause no harm, and her thirst for knowledge would be momentarily sated. Tracing his long forefinger along the edge of the arm of the chair, he allowed his gaze to flicker over the pond of the park.

"A herd of deer inhabited a small forest near the village where we grew up," he began, softly. "One of the deer – a doe – grew to trust us. Often times we visited the forest simply to feed her."

"Do you think that's… that's why Lily's—"

"Unfortunately, Ms. Granger, by the time we had learned to summon Patronuses, she was no longer speaking to me," Severus interrupted, an acidic tone finally infecting his voice. "I haven't the slightest what memory she recalled; I suspect it is more likely it has something to do with her husband."

"'Prongs,'" she added, softly. "I'm sorry, Severus. I didn't me—"

"Of course you didn't, Ms. Granger. You are still the mistress of that feline, yes? What is the saying again?"

"Curiosity—"

"Killed the cat," Severus finished, his dark gaze flickering from the pond's surface to her pretty face. "Indeed."

Silence fell between them for only a moment before Hermione's breath caught in her throat. Cocking an eyebrow, Severus turned just slightly toward her; her eyes were focused beyond them on the graying sky.

"Is it – is it still a doe?"

"Of course."

Her gaze fell to her lap and a shuddering breath heaved her chest. Strangely enough, Severus thought he sensed disappointment in her, but before she could meet his gaze he swept his own across the water of the pond.

Severus was not expecting the soft hand that covered his as it rested on the arm of the chair. Her fingertips brushed over his skeletal digits, tracing the sharp edge of his bony knuckles. Hermione's gaze didn't meet his as she smoothed her fingertips across the flesh of his hand, and he knew – he could practically palpate it on her wrist – her heart was racing; he needed not to perform Legilimency on her to understand she had no idea what drove her behavior.

And Severus did not understand why her behavior did not bother him. For a silent moment, he simply watched her expressionless face; her amber eyes were glossy as she looked out over the greenery of the park. The wind whipped through the air, lifting her hair from the nape of her neck and twisting the tendrils that hung loose around her face. His eyes flickered to the ever-present silver chain shuddered against the rapid pulse of her throat.

The next thought to cross his mind seemed impossible and irrational, and yet his hand began to move of its own accord. While hers still smoothed over his right hand, his left hand reached across his body; Hermione's eyes darted to him, and with bated breath – her lips were parted but her chest was still – she watched as his fingers brushed delicately against the smooth flesh of her throat. He hooked his finger around the fine chain, at first meeting some resistance as the pendant that lurked beneath her robe no doubt battled its way between her breasts. The strangest, most forbidden ache began to throb in his groin as the image of her naked form fleetingly flashed through his mind.

A tiny gasp escaped her as the pendant finally broke free of its confines and slipped from beneath the fabric. His eyes lowered to the charm in his palm but he knew her gaze lingered on his face; the pendant was indeed a Healer insignia, a bone crossed with a wand set against a familiar hideous lime-green colored crest. In that moment, he dared not to look at her; his own heart raced and he knew very well that he may have violated his boundaries – and yet he didn't care.

As though it was necessary to explain himself – and he knew it _was_, in a way, and yet he wished she yearned for the physical contact as much as he – he cleared his throat. "I was curious; I have yet to see you without this charm."

She swallowed hard, her eyes abandoning his face to linger on the pendant that rested in his hand. The chain still rattled against the frantic beat of her heart, and as Severus raised his gaze to meet hers, the endearing freckles that danced across the bridge of her nose clearly visible in his proximity, he thought he felt her lean in closer to him. Her soft breath brushed against his face and for a moment, he desired nothing more than to succumb to the feelings she inspired within him…

A loud roll of thunder interrupted their silent moment and Severus recoiled his hand, the pendant dropping to her breast. Hermione's body tensed, her hand relinquishing his rather suddenly; with a start, she stood from the bench.

"I think it's time we return to the hospital before we're caught in the rain," she said softly.

* * *

><p>Just as they crossed the threshold of the hospital, the sky broke open into a heavy rain. Thunder clapped violently through the sky, lightning dancing across the darkness. Hermione followed Severus' wheelchair to the elevator where they boarded; the curious eyes of several passersby lingered on the empty – yet active – lift before the door closed and they began to rise.<p>

A few moments later brought them to the isolation ward. The brass grille opened, delivering them onto the threshold and together they returned to his private room. Hermione's stomach did not cease in its violent churning and she thought for certain if she had to remain in his presence any longer she would be sick; what concerned her more was that it was not the intimate moment on the bench that nauseated her – in fact, she wasn't nauseous at all. She could not explain the feelings stirring within her.

Every moment she spent with him, the realization became clearer to her; she longed to be more than just his Healer. She knew he had lacked any interaction in the past several years – perhaps here and there a calm encounter, but most were threats to his life – and she suspected she knew just how lonesome he had been. She wanted to be his friend, his confidante; someone he could trust to care for him and restore him to health when his secret mission threatened his vitality.

To just be his Healer – to enter his life for the short time he would be in the hospital – it was not enough for Hermione. She wanted more. She wanted Severus to want more.

As they entered his room, the invisibility charm faded. With her wand, she levitated Severus once more to his bed, moving to his bedside and gently covering his legs with the warm blankets. Immediately, she donned a pair of gloves, her fingers searching the many wounds of his abdomen. The borders were warm and glowing golden, the dark-colored stitches sealing them closed. One laceration, however, seemed determined to resist her attempts to close it; even as he laid still, the edges pulled mercilessly at the sutures, the entire site glowing an angry red with inflammation.

Still, there was something else to be done. As she leveled her wand over his heart, she turned her wrist in a very deliberate motion; the muscle began to beat erratically, its pace ever increasing until Severus seemed to suffer the throes of panic. He brought his hand to chest, his long fingers clawing at the flesh concealing his organs from view.

"Remain calm, Severus. This is very fleeting," Hermione whispered, tucking her wand into her pocket and smoothing her hand across his forehead. "I needed to allow your heart eighteen hours of rest before I cast the healing charm that should begin healing the injuries."

"You should have _warned_ me, Ms. Granger," Snape hissed, his hand finally coming to relax on his chest.

As her hand smoothed over his features, brushing away the droplets of sweat that freckled his face, she couldn't help the quiet laugh that escaped her. It seemed he, too, could appreciate the humor she found in his reaction; a small smirk crossed his lips, but he quickly masked it in a sneer.

A playful smile danced about her lips but she said nothing; a small part of her enjoyed mystifying him, as she suspected he enjoyed much the same. She turned from him to the medicine cabinet, seeking the small ampoule she knew he had come to abhor vehemently. With it, she also acquired a thin gauze bandage which she placed beside him on his bed. He watched her closely, his fingers curling around the edge of the mattress; she knew, no matter how many times he received an application, the pain he experienced never lessened. Perhaps the only saving grace was that she only had to apply it to one of his injuries, and so at the very least, the pain would be of briefer duration than previously.

Drawing the solution into the conjured dropper, Hermione cast an apologetic glance at Severus. As the potion dripped into his wound, foaming around the puncture sites of the sutures, Snape's fingers clawed at the mattress' edge; his growled profanities and the sibilant sigh of the potion seemed to echo in the quiet of the room. Before the pain subsided, Hermione smoothed the bandage over the laceration, securing it on either side with a thin piece of tape.

Removing her gloves, Hermione delicately secured his robes around his neck once more. She hadn't noticed in the past, but a vein was throbbing at his temple – she assumed it was due to the sudden increase in his blood pressure as his body underwent the burst of agony. The corners of his mouth twitched as he clenched his jaw, his lips pulled tight against his yellowed teeth. As the pain faded away, the tension in his jaw slackened, the sickening sound of grinding teeth slowly quieting.

"I am hoping that very soon I won't have to make you suffer through another application of that, Sev," Hermione said softly, stroking her fingers against his temple and brushing his hair from his face.

"I can assure you, Ms. Granger," he growled, turning his dark gaze onto her. "Your hope pales in comparison."

Her lips parted in a genuine smile and she smoothed the back of her hand over the sallow curve of his cheek. The rough growth of his beard scratched against her soft flesh and she was surprised when Snape leaned into her caress. He seemed to regret it almost instantly, however, and recoiled from her, a grimace twisting his features. Turning his gaze from her face, he reached absently for the newspaper that rested atop the stack of journals.

Despite his silent dismissal, Hermione lowered herself into the chair beside him. Her eyes searched what features were visible to her above the newspaper in his hands; she could see the subtle saccade of his eyes as he read from the pages, a disinterested haze glossing them over. Slowly, his gaze flickered to her, though it was slight and barely noticeable. She allowed a smile to part her lips as she met his stare, the fathomless depths of his ebony eyes holding something warm for her.

"Don't you have work to attend, Ms. Granger?" There was a feigned coldness in his voice, so transparent she wondered why he had even bothered forcing it.

"No," Hermione replied. "It is surprisingly slow for a Saturday. I thought I would sit and talk with you."

Lowering the newspaper to his lap, the pages rustled in the swift movement. He folded his hands atop the paper, lowering his chin just slightly as though he was peering at her above a pair of glasses. The mannerism reminded her strongly of Professor Dumbledore, and briefly, she wondered if there were any other habits he had adapted from his old mentor.

"Is there any point in resisting?" Severus queried, his eyebrow arching as he peered at her.

With an ever-broadening smile, Hermione shook her head; the curls that framed her face twirled around her. "No."

With a long-suffering roll of his eyes, which she suspected was more theatrical than sincere, Snape folded the newspaper and replaced it on top of the journals. "Very well. I do not pretend to know what it is you expect to gain from this, but I will entertain your whims for the time-being."

"Well, I'm glad you're feeling accommodating," Hermione replied, a harmless sarcasm leaking into her voice. "Though, as it turns out, you _are _rather incapacitated. What choice do you have but to act as an attentive audience?"

He could not mask the smile that parted his lips as she turned his own logic upon him. As though rejoicing in her small victory, she leaned into her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. A moment of silence passed as she simply studied him, her amber eyes searching his face hungrily. She knew he had granted her a rare opportunity and she fully intended on making the most of it. Fleetingly, she was appreciative that the intimate moment in the park was not infecting their – could it be called a relationship? Curling her fingers around the pendant he exposed, she dropped it beneath the neckline of her robes.

"Is there anything you are willing to tell me about yourself?" she finally asked, leaning forward.

"Certainly."

"Like what?"

"Surely, Ms. Granger, you did not honestly expect me to divulge every insignificant piece of trivia to you?" Severus replied, coolly.

Chewing her lip, Hermione steadily considered him. A small smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth as she stared at him, the lackadaisical – yet complacent – expression plastered to his distinguished features nearly frustrating. She rested her elbows against her knees as she leaned forward, steepling her fingers before her face as she studied him.

"Tell me about the scar on your chest," Hermione dared. She directed her finger towards the right side of his chest. "There."

"Very well," Severus began.

As though for dramatic effect, Severus began to shift against his mattress. He eased himself a little higher in the bed, the pillows that surrounded him forming a protective nest around his body. He brushed his fingers against his cheek, pushing the hair back away from his face; the blanket covering his legs rose higher to conceal his robed stomach from her view. Suddenly, the violent sky outside seemed almost eerily appropriate as he began to speak of a violent tale.

The rolling thunder echoed through the open window and with a quick flick, Hermione's wand directed the window to close. The flashes of lightning that briefly illuminated the room beyond what was offered by the candles casted strange shadows across Severus' face. His dark eyes were fixed on her, and after a melodramatic pause – which yielded from Hermione the response he sought; she leaned forward, nearly resting on his bed – he began speaking.

"Albus requested I seek out a fairly dangerous Death Eater who had escaped imprisonment following Voldemort's fall. He had… developed a certain vendetta against Harry Potter and was searching for the boy," Severus explained slowly. "It did not take very long for me to find him. Albus directed that I bring him to the Ministry for arrest; he, however, did not take too kindly to the idea."

Hermione's hands had reached for the edge of the bed, her fingers curling around the sheets. Her eyes were wide as she listened to him speak. Severus seemed to enjoy his intent audience, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he paused.

"By the end of it, he had sunk a fairly large blade into my chest," Severus said, rather calmly.

"I hardly believe you just plainly sought him out," Hermione scoffed. "There is much more to it than that; there must be."

"I was instructed not to kill him," Severus added, simply. With a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, he turned his attention to his lap where rested the journal he had abandoned. "I, of course, had the advantage; Legilimency guides one well in a duel where only one participant is playing to death."

Severus paused, flicking open the magazine in his lap, the rustle of pages drowned by the loud clap of thunder outside. Hermione's gaze flickered to the white illumination cast through the window by a burst of lightning, the flickering light casting awkward shadows across her face.

"How did you get stabbed, then? If you knew his every move?"

"It is… quite difficult to explain what it is to perform Legilimency. If you can imagine your head on the busiest of days; I imagine your thoughts are hardly tangible to yourself," Severus whispered, turning the page of the journal. "Imagine, for a moment, if someone was attempting to access your thoughts from elsewhere. They will only manage brief glimpses of the chaos milling about within your skull."

"And the chaos only worsens when you're dueling to the death," Hermione said, softly.

Severus nodded. "Indeed. It is best to keep a calm mind when you are dueling – unless your opponent is a Legilimens, of course." His lip curled in a slight sneer, peering at Hermione from the corner of his eye. "I highly doubt his mind was whirling with intention. It is much more likely he was panicked."

"And so when he stabbed you—"

"It was unexpected, indeed," Severus interrupted. "The injury was quite severe."

"Yes, it was. A punctured lung," Hermione replied.

Snape nodded slowly. "I was hospitalized for a week – my students were quite pleased with the cancelled lessons, as I'm sure you can imagine." There was a sarcastic iciness in his voice, and Hermione couldn't suppress her quiet laugh. "The wound, by no means, was healed by then. I simply refused to remain bed-ridden any longer."

"But… if Professor Dumbledore assigned you to hunt the Death Eaters that posed a risk to Harry… how did you explain that to Voldemort, when he returned?" Hermione asked, straightening just slightly as she studied him.

"I explained to the Dark Lord that I knew he must be the one to dispose of the boy," Severus replied. "If anyone else were to do it, it would have made him look quite pathetic. Nearly killed by a child with no magical ability, while one of his followers was able to kill the boy as a child or older." With a small, satisfied smile, Snape released a gruff chuckle. "It is… it is rather amusing to manipulate a wizard's thirst for power."

"I'm certain he appreciated your thoughtful gesture, though," Hermione mused, a small laugh easing out of her.

"Especially," Severus agreed.

A quiet knock sounded from the door. As Hermione rose from the chair, Severus lifted the journal into his hands. She closed her hand onto his upper thigh, a small squeeze conveying all that she wanted to tell him in that moment; as Severus peered at her over the edge of his magazine, something within his eyes glowed. With a small smile, Hermione twirled around, her robes billowing daintily around her feet, finally settling into precise folds. Her movement breezed a pleasant cloud of her scent towards Severus, and as she abandoned him for the door, he drank in the smell of her shampoo and perfume.

Gently easing open the creaky door, Hermione released a soft, surprised gasp when she realized who stood on the other side. Looking sheepish, his ears burning as red as his hair, was Ron; his gaze was fixated on the floor as he awaited her answer and as soon as she appeared, he lifted his face to stare at her.

Swallowing hard, Hermione blinked at him in astonishment. At first, she simply could not believe he was standing there; he _never_ visited her while she was working. A few moments of quiet surprise ticked away and he shifted uncomfortably beneath her stare. A surge of emotions washed over her from anger as she recalled the night previous to remorse for the decision she had already made.

The quiet rustle of paper behind her brought her to her senses. She gingerly stepped outside the room, closing the door quietly behind her. For a moment longer, she studied the man before her; he made an awkward gesture towards her, as though to show her some form of affection, but then seemed to think better of it and simply shifted uncomfortably in his place.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice gritty with irritation. "I'm with a patient."

Lowering his gaze to the floor, Ron finally settled on a motion: he reached for Hermione's hand. His fingers gently twisted the ring around her left finger, his blue eyes searching the small stone as it glittered prettily in the soft light of the hallway.

"I know," he said, finally, his voice quiet. "The nurse downstairs told me you were here… He must be nice; I heard you laughing."

A twinge of annoyance struck her and she bristled. Pulling her hand away from his grasp, she rested her fists against her hips, her amber eyes glowing with anger. It required all of her restraint to keep still; her temper was flaring and, even as a twenty-four-year-old witch, her temper still evoked the primitive magic that caused her hair to crackle. The surge of magic that flowed through her inspired a certain restlessness, and she longed to pace.

"He's certainly pleasant," Hermione growled, willing away the feeling of electricity tingling in her toes. "He appreciates what I'm doing for him."

She couldn't help the subconscious swerve of her hips that dominated her stance in that moment; vaguely, she thought of an indignant Lavender Brown. Folding her arms across her chest, she held Ron in an icy glare; his ears glowed violently as he turned his gaze from her to the wall, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his head nervously.

"Why are you here?" Hermione asked, her voice cold. "I am very busy."

Stepping towards her, he rested his hand on her hip. The hand that had anxiously rubbed his head came around to touch her face gently, and he leaned in to kiss her. Hermione's hands came to his chest, forcing him back away from her, her face twisted into an even angrier expression.

"What do you think you're doing, Ronald? I _am at work_!"

He stumbled backwards a step, his blue eyes glazed incredulously. He brought his hands to his head, combing his fingers through his flaming red hair.

"Hermione, I'm sorry, okay?" Ron sighed. "I had no reason to be mad at you last night."

A dubious smile crossed Hermione's face and she shook her head suspiciously. A chilling laugh erupted from her, and as she stared at him, she couldn't believe the anger that swelled within her. Ron's long, freckled face was twisted into a depressed mask; suddenly, she felt no sympathy for him.

Turning coldly, Hermione intended to abandon him in the hallway; she knew if she was forced to remain with him in the corridor any longer, she may say something she would later regret. His hand came to rest on her wrist, his fingers tightening around her forearm. She paused before twisting the doorknob, casting him a disdainful glare.

"Let go of me, Ronald," Hermione hissed.

"No," he replied. "I want you to talk to me."

"I have nothing to say to you," Hermione snapped, coldly.

As she began to push open the door to Severus' room, Ron suddenly stepped forward, his chest broadened in his indignity. His arms were tense at his sides, his hands trembling violently; his eyes were shiny and red.

"Do you even love me anymore, Hermione? Do you?"

Hermione knew Severus must have heard the question; he also knew the answer. Hermione released a quiet sigh, resting her forehead against the cool surface of the solid door. Ron's ragged breaths over her shoulder only heightened her anxiety; her heart was fluttering erratically in her chest, so quickly she thought for certain she would faint.

Without turning to look at him, her voice was small as she spoke. "Ron, this isn't the place—"

"It's as much a place as any, 'Mione!" his voice cracked on his words. "Answer the question, Hermione!"

Slowly, Hermione brought her hands together before her, her fingers gently grasping the band around her left ring finger. Tears began soaking her cheeks, her eyes burning as she attempted to stifle her sobs. With a certain amount of force and disregard for the consequences, Hermione wrenched the ring off her finger; the band scraped the skin on her knuckle, drawing blood from the shallow wound.

Her fingers tightly wrapped around the engagement ring that rested in her palm. She drew in a steady breath, her chest rising with the effort to soothe herself; the tears that tracked silently down her cheeks dripped from her chin and landed upon her breast. Her eyes flickered open, her wet, swollen eyes holding Ron's own tearful gaze. She extended her hand to him, turning her hand over and dropping the ring into his palm.

"No, Ron," Hermione said softly. "I don't love you anymore. I'm sorry."

A quiet sob escaped her and Hermione disappeared behind the door to her patient's room. She quietly turned the lock, resting her shivering body against the sturdy surface. Her trembling hands smoothed over the cool surface, her eyes shut tight against the tears that poured over her face. She had no idea if Ron lingered outside the room but she didn't care; she couldn't silence her cries anymore. Sliding to the floor, she curled into a ball, pressing her face into the crook of her knees.

The faint whisper of fabric drew back the privacy curtain; Hermione suspected Snape utilized his wandless magic to open the room. She wrapped her arms around the nest she made with her knees, concealing her face from him as she cried quietly into her knees. Her entire body trembled as she sobbed, her fingers gripping tightly the fabric of her robes.

"Ms. Granger," Severus said, softly.

She did not respond to his quiet entreaty. Futilely, she attempted to bury her face deeper into the nest of her knees, her arms coming around her face tightly to grasp violently at the backs of her arms. Beyond her own raspy gasps and muffled sobs, the creaky groan of the bed could be heard as Severus adjusted his weight. She knew it must be awkward for him – she recalled the moment on the park bench and the uncomfortable gleam of his eyes – but there was nothing for it.

He did not press again for a long while, his dark eyes searching her crumpled form in the corner. She had not expected such a confrontation to occur while she was at work; it was the most irrational course of action, leaving her mourning the end of her first relationship while she was supposed to be caring for the ill.

"Ms. Granger," he repeated, his voice laced with an unusual inflection of sympathy.

Wiping roughly at her face, Hermione looked up at him. There was a strange sorrow haunting his face as he studied her; he looked as though he was ready to rise from the bed to come to her side, but knew better than to do so. Slowly, Hermione rose from her place on the ground, shaking her head morosely. There was a cynical smirk playing about her lips, though it was far from a sincere smile; the coldness of her eyes was alarming.

"That was not how I wished for that to happen," Hermione admitted, crossing the room to his bedside.

"It is better that it happened," Snape growled.

Lowering herself into the chair beside him, Hermione's wet eyes searched his face. They were still brimming with tears, her chin quivering as she tried to quell her sobs. She dragged her tongue over the sore on her lip as though reminding herself she shouldn't exacerbate it, and she pulled her gaze from his face.

"I'm sorry, Sev. I must seem like the most unprofessional Healer. I don't… I don't make a habit of dragging my patients into my personal life," Hermione sighed.

Hermione was surprised when Severus' hand reached to her, his cool fingers brushing against her chin and lifting her face to look at him. There was an impossible warmth burning in his dark eyes; an urge, not so unlike that surged through her on the bench, pleaded with her to lean forward and press her lips to his.

Steadily, she held his gaze. His dark eyes were flickering over her features as though he would never see her again, searching every landmark and burning it into his memory. His thumb came to her cheek, stroking the smooth skin gently; her eyes flickered closed as she savored the feeling of his touch, a soft sigh escaping her as she listened to his even, calm breathing.

"I have told you, Ms. Granger," he growled, pulling his hand from her face. "We share an intimacy few others have experienced."

* * *

><p>When Hermione abandoned his room that afternoon, Severus was left with an erratic flurry of emotions. The scent of her body, the feeling of her skin beneath his fingers – Severus hadn't any grasp on what it was that possessed him when he stroked her face. The woman had just left the man she was to marry, and he was reaching out to her as though he were coming in for the rebound.<p>

Staring blankly at the white sheets that covered his legs, Severus fisted a handful of fabric in frustration. There rioted a tension below his navel that he knew should not exist, especially when in response to his knowledge that she was no longer engaged to Weasley. Combing his fingers through his hair, Severus leaned into the nest of pillows beneath him. A part of him so desperately hoped she would remain in the hospital overnight – her presence throughout the morning and afternoon was very pleasant, and every moment she was away from him, he felt a strange sadness.

She had been his only company in the past – four? five? – days and she had confided in him. She had shown him true compassion and a genuine curiosity; she wished to learn about him. In a moment of weakness, a moment of loneliness, he agreed to divulge to her an irrelevant event of his history; she knew not to pry into the identity of the man that had wounded him, and simply reveled in the vague information he provided her.

As he thought on her, he began to suspect that his body reacted to more than her feminine sexuality. As he thought on her, he began to wonder if it was not just his body reacting to her in a primitive nature, but his heart.

Swallowing hard, Severus shook his head brusquely, as though to shed from it the irrational thoughts that lingered; dark hair twirled about him lightly as he moved. A heavy sigh swelled in his chest and he thought he could still detect the faint aroma that her body emitted. A burst of lightning danced through the sky, illuminating the room in a haunting way. The rolling thunder did not take long to follow.

* * *

><p>As Hermione lowered herself into the chair behind her desk, she breathed a small sigh. She suspected Ron wouldn't have even returned to the apartment before heading to the Burrow. She felt barely any concern for the possibility he would have remained at her home; he knew when his presence was not welcome, and she certainly wanted nothing to do with him for the time-being.<p>

She couldn't keep her thoughts from lingering on Severus. His touch had been so gentle, so kind; it was such a stark difference than what she had been accustomed to when it came to _Professor_ Snape. His eyes held something safe there for her, something warm; the only way she knew how to explain the look in his eyes was to relate it to the way Ron used to look at her. Strangely, she felt safe with Severus.

Combing her fingers through her hair, Hermione collected the mass of curls and secured it at the nape of her neck. She knew she could not spend the rest of her afternoon in seclusion, despite how much she may have desired it. A patient file rested on the surface of her desk and as she eyed it, she did her best to suppress the tumultuous emotions she was feeling in that moment. Her patients needed her – and even if she only had one other patient to care for that afternoon, she would be damned if she did not give that individual her fully undivided attention.

Flicking open the folder, Hermione quickly scanned its contents. With a small smile – Fate certainly had an interesting way of lightening one's mood – she rose from her desk, tucking the folder beneath her arm. She rounded her desk and breathed in a steady breath before pulling open the door.

Crossing the hallway, she quietly knocked on the door to the patient's room. A gruff grunt sounded from within the room and as Hermione pulled open the door, the busily shuffling feet pressed the bodies of nurses into the privacy curtain that surrounded the bed. Quiet whispers – nearly silent to Hermione standing in the doorway – hissed at each other, the wizard in the bed grumbling angrily as they fussed over him.

"Good afternoon," Hermione called. Her heels clicked against the tile floor as she crossed the room, slipping into the privacy of the curtain. "I'm Hermione Granger. I will be your Healer today."

* * *

><p>When Hermione returned to her apartment that evening, Ron was nowhere to be found. A dull sense of remorse ached somewhere within her; shaking her head slowly, Hermione breathed a soft sigh. She knew he would make an appearance in the very near future – the apartment remained as she had left it that morning, and she knew Ron would come seeking his belongings before long.<p>

It was an odd feeling, Hermione mused, as she lowered herself onto the empty couch and stared at the blank television screen. She had expected that upon returning to her apartment, it would seem empty without Ron's presence; hollow, lifeless, in a way. Crookshanks leapt gracefully to her lap, clawing the fabric of her robes as he kneaded a place in her lap for him to rest. Bringing her hand to his head, she stroked his orange fur affectionately.

Her apartment felt no different than it had the night previous. The dull rumble of Crookshanks' purring rolled against Hermione's fingertips as she scratched at his throat, his soft fur feeling wonderful beneath her fingers. Absently, she brought her knuckle to her lips, sucking on the sore scrape she earned from her rough handling of the engagement ring.

It also seemed strange that her thoughts predominately lingered on the man whom was under her care. The feeling of his touch against her skin, the soothing way her body responded as he spoke. She closed her eyes, leaning her head against the couch. For a moment, she considered allowing the thoughts to linger without desperately trying to understand them; the aching in her nether regions as she thought on him urged her to completely disregard any ethical guidelines or laws that governed her interactions with patients. Drawing her lip into her teeth, she chewed it tenderly. She knew she could never—_he_ would never—what on Earth was she thinking?

Rising from the couch – and disheveling a rather content feline in the process – Hermione quietly padded to her bedroom. The familiar scent swept over her; a melancholy emotion surged through her as she breathed in the lingering smell of Ron. As her eyes passed over the bed, still unmade from when Ron vacated it that morning, sadness swelled in her chest. Climbing across the bed, she curled into the place that Ron's body always warmed and drank in the scent that lifted from his pillow.

* * *

><p><em>Sitting quietly on Lily's bed, Severus entire body was shivering. Lily's hands enveloped his; she, too, was trembling. Gently, she brought one of her tremulous hands to her face, tucking stray pieces of hair behind his ears. The gentle touch of her soft and delicate fingers against his face sent a shiver coursing through his spine.<em>

"_Lily… are you… are you sure you want to do this?" Severus breathed, his hands trembling violently._

_He couldn't look at her in that moment; he did not want to see the doubt that flickered in her eyes. He knew she had to be uncertain; how could she not be? And yet, her warm body was leaning into his, her lips brushing against his face. _

"_Severus," she whispered, her breath teasing his ear. "I never want to look back on my first time and feel regret. I… I would never, not with you."_

_The sleeve of her heavy sweater scratched against his neck as her arm slid over his shoulder and curling around his neck, pulling him closer to her. Shakily, he pressed his hands onto her hips, longing to pull her close but fearing what would happen if he did. Her soft lips sought his, gentle kisses dancing all across his face._

_She used her weight to drag him to the bed with her, her arms laced around his neck, tightening her grasp on him and drawing his body impossibly close to hers. Severus felt panic rise in his chest as she pressed against the hardening length in his corduroys; when her thigh pressed against him, she paused, drawing back from him to gaze into his eyes. _

"_Don't you… don't you want to?" Lily asked, gently._

_His mind was flooded with irrational thought. The only tangible thought registering in his mind was the feeling of her body pressed against his; there was a strange tugging in his lower body, a craving that he couldn't explain. _

"_Yes, Lily," Severus gasped. "Of course I want to. I just—"_

"_Kiss me, Severus," she pleaded. "Kiss me."_

_When she pressed her lips roughly to his mouth, Severus could not restrain himself any longer. The taste of her permeated throughout his entire body, inspiring a rush of emotions to come flooding into him. The erection that lurked against her shuddered as her tongue pushed at his closed lips; he parted them, allowing her access into him. Her mouth tasted like nothing else he had ever experienced: a mixture of mint-flavored chewing gum and a sweet taste he had never known before. She tasted like Lily. _

_As though he knew what he was doing, his tongue began hungrily caressing hers, searching the cavern of her mouth as though he would never visit that place again. Her hands came to the buttons of his flannel shirt, fumbling with them nervously, as she met his hungry caresses with force. Severus' hand smoothed over the dip of her small waist down to her hips, grasping the firm flesh of her buttocks, his other hand gently caressing the back of her neck._

_A soft moan escaped her as she exposed Severus' thin, pale chest. Desperately, her hands began forcing the article from his shoulders, sliding the sleeves down his arms and over his hands. His shirt dropped to the floor beside the bed with a quiet whisper. Soft hands explored his chest, fingers fumbling nervously with the hardened peaks of his nipples, sliding down his stomach to the soft, faint trail of dark hair that led from his navel to his underwear._

_Severus grasped at the hem of her sweater; Lily parted from him only long enough that he could lift the heavy garment over her head. Her pretty face was flushed with passion; tiny droplets of sweat freckled her chest and cheeks and as Severus stared at the girl above him, he didn't believe for a second there was another girl or woman in the world that was as beautiful. Gently, he combed his fingers through her thick, red hair; she leaned down to him, her soft hands smoothing over his bare chest and she kissed him deeply._

_As though with instinct, his lips parted to grant her access. She dragged her nails gently down his chest, leading a pink trail along the soft hair that lead to his underwear. Her hand brushed against his hardness through the fabric of his clothing; Severus gasped as her fingers followed the outline of his erection. The feeling of her touch against his most sensitive part—_

_Unfastening her own jeans, Lily reached for Severus' hand, guiding his fingers beneath the elastic of her knickers. She giggled nervously as he trembled against her, and as he smoothed his hand through the soft curls that lurked just above _her_ most sensitive parts, she released a raspy sigh. Between his fingers emerged the swollen nub of her clitoris, and gently – anxiously – he began to rub. She gasped, a quiet moan escaping her lips as her legs fell open. He couldn't believe the wetness that coated his fingers as he rubbed at her. _

_When she unfastened his pants, her hands shakily fumbling with his graying underwear, Severus paused in his frantic fingering. Her small hand wrapped loosely around his shaft; Severus gasped in pleasure as her hand slid along the ridges of his hardened organ. He covered her hand with his, guiding her in tightening her grasp; she began to stroke him perfectly as soon as he showed her how. The feeling of her hand around him was like nothing he had ever imagined; she pressed a passionate kiss to his lips, exploring his mouth hungrily with her tongue as she stroked him – he thought he might die from the overwhelming sensations that washed over him._

_Her hips began rocking into his hand as he rubbed her; he was losing control of his massage, her hot folds so slick and wet. She cried out when his long fingers slipped inside of her. She began thrusting her hips more emphatically with his fingers inside her; her grip on his erection tightened, her strokes quickening._

_Their panting breaths brushed against their faces, the smell of their breath lingering between them. Lily suddenly abandoned his penis, her hands forcing her pants down over her hips. Her feet began feverishly kicking as she discarded her jeans, her legs falling widely open to allow Severus better access to her heated core._

_As he rubbed at her, she struggled with his corduroys. She used her feet to drag them off him, abandoning the task as they rested at his ankles. Kicking his feet, his trousers fell to the floor, and with a sudden burst of lust, he clambered over her. His lips searched her face and throat, his hands sweeping over her chest and beneath the fabric of her brassiere hungrily. The feeling he had always imagined paled in comparison as he slid his fingers over her pert breasts, cupping them gently. _

"_Lily, are you sure—"_

"_Severus, shut up," she gasped, grabbing hold of his hips. _

_With her hands, she roughly guided him towards her. The feeling of her hot core pressed against him was excruciating; Severus hadn't the vocabulary to truly describe it. Her legs surrounded him, her sharp ankles hooking around his calves as she pressed herself forward. As she began to surround him, the hot, wet pressure pressing in on all sides of him, he nearly climaxed. _

_For fear of ending it far too quickly, he slowly eased into her. His entire body shuddered violently as he tried to restrain his climax. The feeling of her tight walls surrounding him was like nothing else he had ever imagined; the slick feeling of the musculature surrounding him, pulsing around his hard shaft stroked him in a way he, himself, never could have. He clenched his eyes closed against the wonderful feeling, the soft sighs below him teasing his blinded senses. His thrusts were deliberate and slow but to no avail; it seemed within seconds he released his seed within her, the most climactic of orgasms reverberating throughout his body. As his eyes flickered open, the face below him was not the girl he loved; her straight red hair had darkened into honey-brown curls, her piercing emerald eyes a pretty shade of amber…_

Severus woke to the feeling of sticky, moist sheets pressing against his abdomen. He was overcome with a strange sense of euphoria and nausea. His lower stomach seemed to throb, and as he rolled his head against the pillow, trying to force his eyes to open, he brought a tremulous hand to his forehead and wiped away the thin film of sweat. Severus discovered a very long time ago that his brain had a very cruel way of preventing restful sleep; if he was not plagued by nightmares of the horrors he had seen, then his outlandish and impossible desires coalesced in his mind as tangible events, only to be torn from him upon waking. He refused to acknowledge the change of identity of the woman in his dream; it only served to further complicate his troubled mind.

He was indeed growing quiet weary of the excessive sleep he was obtaining while hospitalized. Briefly he wondered if Granger – _Hermione?_ – had been providing him a sleeping potion; he would have to remember to ask her when next he saw her. Severus was not one to desire much sleep, for reasons that were becoming readily apparent to him. The prison of sleep held no solace for him, only pain.

Finally, his eyelids peeled open, revealing to him a dim room illuminated only by the soft glow of the early morning sky through the window. Lifting the blankets, he pulled the tacky sheet away from his body, staring with some disgust at the mess that erupted from his body in his sleep. A long yawn widened his mouth and as he rubbed at his eyes, the sudden smell of his own ejaculate stung his nose. A small, cynical smirk touched his mouth, and as he shifted in his bed, he noticed a strange disheveled imbalance in the mattress.

Turning to his left, he finally noticed the sleeping head of his Healer. She looked terribly uncomfortable; her arms were folded upon the mattress, her head resting atop her forearms. She was leaning forward from her chair, her back arched in an oddly seductive curve. Her hair spilled over her arms like honey-brown waterfalls, glittering prettily in the pale morning light. The wrinkled, torn pages of a magazine peeked out from beneath her elbow. The magazine he had been reading the evening previous.

Her presence there was curious. A smile crossed his lips as he combed his fingers through her thick hair, the soft curls coiling around his fingers. The tickling sensation against her skull stirred her, and as she began to lift her head, Severus recoiled his hand. Her heavy-lidded amber eyes were glazed as she peered at him, the weight of sleep apparent in her face. A yawn brought her hand to her face in feminine politeness, and as she wiped the tears from her eyes, she smiled groggily.

"It's not quite morning, I hope I didn't wake you," she whispered, her voice as heavy as her eyelids.

"Hardly, Ms. Granger," he growled. "I believe I am the one who has done the waking. Why are you here?"

"I am the most unprofessional Healer in the hospital, of course," she replied, playfully. "I couldn't sleep in my apartment. My room smelled of Ron."

Severus turned his head to the side, his eyebrow arched in curiosity. "And your preference is the stale scent of the hospital?"

"Of course not, Sev," she replied, sleepily. "My preference is your company."


	7. Chapter 7

Rating: M – inappropriate for readers under the age of 16; contains scenes of explicit sexuality and violence.  
>Disclaimer: Characters and settings ©J.K. Rowling.<p>

**Potions, Plans, and Second Chances**

K. Marie

**Chapter 7**

The scent of Ron's hair was an impossible lullaby; as she lay in her bed, twisting and tossing and turning, sleep evaded Hermione. It seemed an eternity passed as she restlessly shifted beneath the heavy covers of her bed, and yet she couldn't bring herself to flick her wrist in a silent "_Tergeo_" to siphon the smell away.

The tears that trickled down her cheeks stained the pillow below her. With such a strong aroma and cool sheets, Hermione couldn't help but suspect Fate was once again pressing herself into matters that did not concern her. It almost seemed impossible that a bed that had not harbored a body since morning could release such a strong reminder of the love she dismissed.

Digging her fingers into the softness of Ron's pillow, Hermione didn't bother stifling the quiet sob that escaped her. She hadn't felt so hollow, so empty, since the time Ron abandoned _her_ in those woods so long ago. She tried to remember how sullen he had been, how he had been so distant and easily angered in the many years they had been together; how he had postponed their wedding ceremony, how they had not made love in so long Hermione nearly forgot how his body felt, how he tasted. It was as though he was a stranger to her, and yet…

Turning onto her back, Hermione stared at the ceiling of her bedroom. In the silence of her apartment, even the quiet tick of the clock in the living room seemed impossibly loud. Tears ran silent tracks over her cheeks, warmth pooling in her ears and dripping onto the fabric of Ron's pillow. She had planned a life with him; she had gone so far as picking names for their children. Lifting her hand, her eyes fell on the nakedness of her left finger. Had she made a mistake?

Breathing a heavy sigh, Hermione drew herself from the bed, smoothing her hands over her robes. She caught her reflection in the mirror; spiky eyelashes still wet with tears, eyes that were swollen from her relentless crying. She combed her unmanageable hair back from her face, trembling fingers catching in tangles of riotous curls. Roughly, she wiped the back of her hand across her cheek, brushing away the tears that lingered there. She sucked in as much air as her lungs could contain, holding the breath for as long as she could before releasing it in a noisy sigh.

There was no sense in lying in bed, regretting her decision. She wanted something more than Ron could offer her in his state; she _needed_ something more. She refused to acknowledge the way her mind persistently lingered on Severus Snape whenever she thought of needing _more_.

Tucking her wand into her robes, she collected her bag before tossing the Floo powder into the hearth. If she would be useless at home, she would go where she knew there was something to occupy her mind: she would return to the hospital where there were notes to be transcribed and records to be filed.

Breathing in a steadying sigh, Hermione stepped through the green flames and emerged in her tidy office a second later. All was as she had left it, and with a quick glance around, she set her bag beside her desk. The tiny china tea set Molly Weasley had gifted her several Christmases ago sat woefully beside the compact coffee maker on a table in the corner, and as Hermione stared at it, longing for tea, she frowned. Sighing softly, she turned towards her desk, pulling back the chair and lowering herself into its comforting cushions. A pretty necklace, a tiny golden _H_ dangling from the chain, hung around her desk lamp; a gift from Bill and Fleur for her birthday two years previous.

Clearing her throat of the lump that began to rise, Hermione drew open one of the drawers of her desk. Atop the pile of papers that rested there was a small white rectangle; as Hermione turned it over, she would have laughed if she hadn't been feeling so sullen. The photograph was from her time at university; Ron was embracing her around the waist as she held up her apprenticeship offer from Poppy Pomfrey. Breathing in a deep breath through her flared nostrils, Hermione slammed the drawer closed and rose abruptly from her desk.

"This is just ridiculous," Hermione hissed to the empty room.

Her wandering eyes landed on the family portrait of the Weasleys, which was so brazen to include Harry, Fleur, Angelina, and Audrey – audacious only because of Hermione's mood, though she was the only one (aside from Harry and Ginny, of course) that did not bear the Weasley surname. But the entire Weasley family welcomed her as their own, even without having shared the name.

With an exasperated sigh, Hermione abandoned the room in desperation. It was no place for her in that moment when all she could think about was Ron. Without much conscious thought, her feet seemed to drag her on without any direction. The nurse-witch behind the station cast a curious glance, but Hermione ignored her. When she felt her hand rise and press against the door to the stairwell, she suspected she knew precisely where her feet were taking her.

Slowly, Hermione pushed open the door to Severus' room, the telltale creak of the hinges announcing her entrance. She was greeted by a quiet snore, the sound inspiring a small smile to creep across her lips. There was something quite humanizing about snoring, and it was a sound she strangely found endearing, especially in Severus.

The door closed quietly behind her and she rounded the curtain to find her patient reclining rather comfortably in the pile of pillows he had taken to liking. A journal was open in his lap, as though he had nodded off while reading. Sliding the mangled magazine from beneath his heavy arms, Hermione smoothed her hands over the torn and wrinkled pages before lowering herself into the chair.

The irony was not lost on her that, despite everything, she found solace in the company of this man. Her eyes wandered over his relaxed features; the smudgy shadows around his eyes had faded with every day he remained in the hospital, his flesh warm with restoring health. Leaning forward, she brushed a strand of hair from his smooth forehead; he sucked in a deep breath, releasing it in a long sigh.

Resting her cheek against her knuckles, Hermione began reading from the page Snape had left, her eyes roaming over the words with a keen sense of interest. His hand brushed against her arm as he shifted his position in bed, his lips smacking in his sleep before silence settled in the room again. She could certainly understand how the article had lulled him to sleep. The longer her eyes scanned the pages, the heavier her lids became until…

A luxurious feeling of strong fingertips against her scalp stirred Hermione from her restful sleep. As she began to stir, lifting her head on her stiff neck she felt the fingertips withdraw from their nest in her hair; tired amber eyes met ebony and she realized Severus was awake. Bringing her hand to her mouth as a yawn widened her mouth, she felt sleepy tears squeeze out onto her cheeks. A small, tired smile parted her lips as she brushed away her tears.

"It's not quite morning, I hope I didn't wake you," she whispered, her voice as heavy as her eyelids.

"Hardly, Ms. Granger," Severus growled, a bemused expression twisting his features. "I believe I am the one who has done the waking. Why are you here?"

Hermione could have laughed at his forthrightness, but she knew it was a curious situation indeed. _Why _am_ I here?_

Though it was unlike her, the first words that crossed her mind spilled from her lips. "I am the most unprofessional Healer in the hospital, of course. I couldn't sleep in my apartment. My room smelled of Ron."

He tilted his head to the side, an eyebrow arching in wonder at her strange answer. She would not have been surprised if even Severus Snape realized her response was thoughtless and uncharacteristic of her.

"And your preference is the stale scent of the hospital?"

"Of course not, Sev," she replied, sleepily. "My preference is your company."

The expression that crossed his face in that moment, Hermione could not explain. There was a brief furrowing of his brow, his thin lips tightening across his teeth; a second later, it was replaced by something softer that was revealed only through his eyes. And then any indication he was feeling anything at all vanished; he lifted the journal she uncovered, the pages falling from the binding and flittering to the floor.

Hermione watched the pages fall with rustling whispers, an easy breeze sailing through the window and brushing her hair back away from her face. A blush stained her cheeks as she avoided his gaze, her heart pounding in her chest as she realized the vulnerability of such a statement. She was sure he would begin to mock her, his entire body stiffening as he adjusted his position in the bed.

It was Snape's turn to speak uncharacteristically. With a degree of discomfort, or perhaps uncertainty – though the former seemed more likely – he cleared his throat, turning his gaze from her face to the window.

"You are struggling with your decision."

Breathing in a deep sigh through her nose, Hermione nodded. "Yes."

Silence settled in around them, heavier than any feeling of gloom Hermione was feeling. Needing to busy herself with something, Hermione rose from the bed and pulled her hair back at the nape of her neck. Reaching for a pair of gloves, she drew them over her hands and prepared to examine the dour man.

As she reached for the blankets, Severus made a jerking movement with his arms, clutching at the blanket that lay across his lap. Hermione recoiled her hands, startled, her eyes shifting from his lap to his face; an unreadable expression set against his features, he moved in very deliberate motions to fold the blanket down himself.

"Sev…?"

"I have very little dignity remaining, Ms. Granger," he growled, unfastening his robe for his fidgeting Healer. It seemed he was very careful to avoid meeting her gaze. He folded the gown to his waist, as though the action was only to preserve his dwindling self-esteem; Hermione's eyes flickered over the fabric, a puzzled expression pressing her eyebrows together, but she said nothing.

As Severus laid his hands against the mattress, opening his chest to Hermione for viewing, the Healer redirected her focus to the matter more pressing. The wounds that decorated his flesh continued to emit a gold halo, the dark stitches forming tiny black bridges over the red chasms of his wounds. With a ginger touch, she gently palpated the surrounding healthy tissue, her eyes fixated on the wounds.

"It is for the better, Ms. Granger," Snape ground out through gritted teeth. "Certainly you must realize that."

It took her a moment to realize he was continuing their conversation from earlier, but she shot him a sharp glare before returning her gaze to his abdomen. "I was not aware you were a Seer, Severus," Hermione replied, acidly. "I, for one, was not born with 'the Sight.'"

Though he did his best to conceal it, Severus seemed strangely uncomfortable as Hermione fussed over him. His gaze was fixed upon her as she leaned in close to the infamously troubling wound. It pulled mutinously at its bindings, angry flesh glaring at her through the stitches. With a resigned sigh, Hermione abandoned his abdomen to begin her assessment of his limbs. At this, he seemed to relax, his entire body loosening as he faded into the sheets.

"I do not require 'the Sight'" – he spoke of it with the same disdain she had – "to foresee the probable results of your decision."

As Hermione pressed her weight into his foot, simultaneously testing his flexibility of his left leg and stretching the muscles that had tied themselves in uncomfortable knots in his inactivity, she glared at him with a suspicion. He did not bother to stifle the pleasured groan that escaped his lips as she elongated the muscles of his thigh, but instead allowed a smirk to cross his face.

"If you had any sense, Ms. Granger," he said, his voice oily. "You would see it too."

She was silent through the remainder of her exam, her hands working diligently and expediently over his body. It was only when she was beside him, her hands rolling his right shoulder in tight circles and loosening the tension there, did she speak.

"If you are so omniscient," she began, her amber eyes narrowed as she studied his face, finally releasing his limb.

With a satisfied sneer, Severus reached for the newspaper. Hermione rounded the end of the bed, approaching the medicine cabinet to mix his morning medication. Amidst the quiet _clink _of the vials against the metal lip of the goblet, Snape finally answered her.

"There are several possibilities, all of which are an improvement on your current situation, if you ask me," he began, coldly. "Either Mr. Weasley will finally seek the help you had so often suggested or you will realize you are happier without him. I fail to see how your shared misery is a preferable circumstance." He accepted the goblet she offered him, swallowing the solution in a quick toss of his head before turning it over to her once more. "Certainly, you are sad now, but it is passing."

With a furrowed brow, she crossed her arms over her chest, the goblet held lazily in her fingers. The remaining potion that lingered within the cup dripped from the lip to the floor, splashing with a quiet _drip_ against the tile. She considered him from this position for a long while; Snape returned his attention to the newspaper in his hands.

"Your sorrow wasn't passing when Lily left you, Severus," Hermione averred, softly. There was no coldness to her voice, no disdain; she stated it as though it were an inarguable truth, an inconvenient fact.

His fingers shifted around the edges of the pages, the rustle and crackle of newspaper grinding together breaking the weighted silence that settled in on their shoulders. The fine muscles of his jaw grew taut as he clenched his teeth, the only indication she had said anything at all. His eyes flickered closed against his rising anger, and he drew in a long, steady breath through long, flared nostrils.

"That was different," he growled, lowering the newspaper to his lap in a deliberately slow and controlled movement.

"How was it different?" she asked, crossing to the window and leaning against the sill. "Tell me how it was different."

"And – pray tell, Ms. Granger – for what reason would I explain _anything_ to you?"

"Because you can trust me," Hermione replied, her voice soft. "Because you know you can."

"And Mr. Potter had not already informed you of _why_ Lily 'left' me?" his question was nearly spat, his voice acidic and his lips paling in his rising anger.

"He didn't tell me much at all, actually," Hermione replied calmly, despite his obvious temper. "He told me that you loved her nearly all your life. That everything you had done – it was for her memory."

"I have made mistakes," Severus growled. "She could no longer forgive them."

"But you—you were so young—"

"It is irrelevant," he interrupted. "It does not matter when it happened. All that matters is that it _happened_."

Lowering herself to the end of his bed, Hermione set an unsteady hand on his shin. His dark gaze met her own, the ugly flush of his face that accompanied his rising anger slowly paling. He brought his spidery fingers to his face, brushing strands of hair back. The anger that resonated through him was nearly tangible, like heat radiating from flame. Hermione scooted closer to the head of the bed, his hand within reach of hers. Her trembling touch smoothed over the veiny surface of his pale flesh, slowly sliding beneath his palm and tangling her fingers in his.

"I'm sorry, Sev," she said quietly. "It was not my place."

Snape lowered his gaze to their entwined hands, his fingers flexing over her knuckles for a moment. His thumb smoothed over her soft skin before he withdrew his hand, lifting the newspaper once more. Though it was not much, Hermione knew he had accepted her apology, and with the silent – though not _unkind_ – dismissal, she rose from his bed.

"I will be back soon, Sev," Hermione said quietly before she disappeared behind the curtain.

* * *

><p>That Sunday seemed to tick away as any normal day would; Hermione saw to it that her patients were proficiently treated and dismissed without much fuss. The "unidentified" patient in the isolation ward spent the remainder of his Sunday afternoon in solitude – Hermione was only able to visit when she had to provide his afternoon dose of his prescriptions, and then she was off again.<p>

If she was completely honest, Hermione appreciated the time away from Snape. It had been such a long time since anyone had been able to evoke such a range of emotions within her, and she had never expected that Severus Snape was capable of such a response. From frustration to elation, he had been able to tease seemingly every emotion from her. She couldn't explain her fascination with him; it felt as though her heart was drawn to him in some strange way, as though it enjoyed the ride he set it on.

Hermione took her late lunch to her office; there were several patient files she needed to review – and some that needed to be filed – and with most of her day revolving around Snape, she had not done well to see that it was finished. An hour into her frantic scrawling, she was interrupted.

"Hermione? It is unlike you to be working on the weekends."

Hermione would have been startled by the sudden voice if she had not sensed the old witch's overpowering perfume. Raising her eyes from her folder, Hermione feigned a cordial smile as she met the gaze of the Head Healer of the emergency department, her dark hair hanging loosely in elegant waves down her back. She did not display the typical uniform of St. Mungo's Healers, either, though her fingernails were a similarly hideous shade of green. Instead, her extravagant dress robes fell all around her in precise folds, glittering prettily with a glamour charm.

For a Healer, she was a bit too preened for Hermione's liking. But then, it was she who signed Hermione's paycheck, so to speak – so Hermione kept her opinions to herself.

"I had free time this weekend," Hermione replied with a small roll of her shoulders. Dipping her quill in her inkwell, she returned to her task at hand.

"How is the John Smith?"

Realizing her boss had no intention of leaving her alone, Hermione resigned to the interrogation that she knew was about to ensue. Replacing her quill into its well, combing her fingers along the feather delicately, she leaned back in her chair to meet the gaze of the woman before her.

"He is slow to recover. I have reason to suspect that his injuries were caused by an as-of-yet-unidentified poison," Hermione answered, seriously. "Though, it is quite curious – some of his wounds have healed without event. Others have required extraordinary measures to show any improvement at all."

"Have you identified him?"

"No."

"Is he speaking?"

"No."

To boldly deceive her superior was to risk everything she had worked for, but she knew if she were honest, it would place Severus at risk. If it were made public knowledge he was freely conversing with his Healer, the chance would be higher that he would be targeted by others in the hospital in attempts to positively identify him.

And if she had answered honestly about her positive identification, she would have betrayed him. Hermione disregarded the scenario as even an option; she had worked very hard to earn his trust and she would continue to build the foundation upon which he would confide in her.

"I find it peculiar he is not speaking and yet the majority of your time is spent on the isolation ward," she replied with an incredulous curve of a finely-tweezed eyebrow.

Lowering her gaze to the files sprawled across her desk, Hermione reached for the quill once more. Matilda Cothrop was not an ignorant witch; she would have to be far from it to have made such a position within the emergency ward. Allowing herself only a second to consider her answers, Hermione made a tiny note on the file below her.

"I've been reading to him."

"Reading to him?" Matilda parroted.

"Yes," Hermione replied, turning her amber eyes back to the icy blue eyes that held her. "I have brought several of my personal subscriptions to his room, and while I have a little spare time I've been reading to him."

"You mean he's illiterate?"

Hermione's stomach began churning as she dug deeper the hole she was standing in. Ducking her hands beneath the surface of her desk, she began to wring her fingers; her gaze never left Matilda's face.

_Severus Snape, you had better be damn well worth the risk I'm taking._

"He's far from illiterate, Matilda," Hermione replied. "But he spends most of his time reading. I think he enjoys the rest that being read to allows his eyes."

If Matilda believed her, Hermione couldn't be certain. The witch's hostile gaze – at least, it felt hostile to Hermione, as the icy blue chips of her hard gaze burned her cheeks – was focused on Hermione's face with no change of expression and no emotion haunting their depths. Crossing her arms across her chest, Matilda leaned against the doorjamb.

"I would like you to make it a priority to identify him," Matilda said. "You should know well the risks involved in treating a patient whose history we do not know. I will not allow the hospital to come under fire because we were unable to ascertain his identity."

Nodding curtly, Hermione conceded. "Of course, Matilda."

With a sharp turn, the preened witch disappeared into the hallway, leaving Hermione with a rising nausea and the bitter taste of partially-digested food lingering in her mouth.

* * *

><p>As the evening approached and Hermione was finally relieved from her duties, she retired to Severus' room with their meals. Gently, she rapped her knuckles against the solid surface, easing open the door before she was greeted by the man within.<p>

As she pressed the door closed quietly behind her, the faint rustle of paper pages disrupted the silence of the room. A gruff cough cleared his throat, and his oily voice resonated through her as he spoke.

"Ms. Granger?"

"Yes, Sev," she replied, softly. "I thought I would join you for dinner, if you don't mind."

"One can only read so much before their eyes can no longer distinguish the words on the page," he growled, folding the newspaper neatly.

A small chuckle escaped Hermione as she crossed to the medicine cabinet, drawing the usual vials from the drawer. At least her statement to Matilda was partially true, anyway. With the goblet in her hand, she approached Severus, offering him the cool cup and waiting patiently as he drank the solution within. His calm conversation was indication enough that their intense meeting that morning was, as far as he was concerned, in the past.

"Will you be returning to your apartment this evening?" Severus asked, casually, turning the goblet into her hands.

Drawing her swollen lip into her teeth, Hermione chewed it pensively as she mingled between the bed and the cabinet. She replaced the goblet there after cleaning it with a simple charm, turning her warm amber eyes onto the man reclining in his bed.

"I haven't decided," she replied.

With a slight tip of his chin, he acknowledged her response before turning to the magically manifesting table at the foot of his bed. With a small, satisfied smirk – and a poorly concealed glance to his Healer – the heavy tray that was clearly his floated through the air coming to settle levelly on his thighs. Hermione wrinkled her nose in feigned disapproval, reaching for her own tray and lowering into the chair beside him.

For a few minutes, they ate in silence; the quiet clinking of silverware against their plates seeming to echo in the heavy calm of the room. Severus seemed to have no interest in even meeting Hermione's wandering gaze, and she began to feel somewhat misplaced in the room with him. Perhaps her previous assumption had been misplaced, as well.

Refusing him success in dismissing her – she still could not understand the conflicting signals he so often sent her – she cleared her throat delicately, finally raising her gaze from the plate.

"I have been directed to make an effort to identify you," she said calmly, her gaze focused levelly on his face.

A twitch of the fine musculature of his cheek was Hermione's only indication he even heard her. Raising a bite of food to his mouth, his eyes focused on his plate, he slowly chewed his bite of food, as though the behavior was solely meant to allow him time to consider his response.

"I have known you far too long to expect you will simply acquiesce that information," he replied finally, his voice soft yet indifferent.

"My superior requested that I make it a priority."

A moment of silence passed, filled only by the sound of Severus' silverware tapping against his plate as he continued his meal. Chewing through a piece of meat, he turned his gaze to her.

"I have lied for you." There was an uncomfortable intonation in her voice, one she neither forced nor could conceal.

"Shall I thank you for doing as you have promised?" Snape growled.

Hermione turned to her plate, twirling her fork into the nest of noodles that rested on her plate. In the quiet that passed, her senses became suddenly aware of the aroma of food that effused the air. She knew his growing hostility was only a defense mechanism and one he brandished quite efficiently; and yet, there was a warmth that overcame her. He needed her. They both realized it.

"I expect nothing of you, Severus," Hermione said. "You have spent too much of your life at the bidding of others. I will not force you into a situation like that. You have choices here. You can choose to trust me, and you can choose to confide in me. I just want you to know to what lengths I am going to keep you safe."

The quiet _tink _-ing of silverware suddenly hushed as she spoke and when she lifted her gaze, amber met ebony. The emotions swimming in his eyes were inexplicable to Hermione; it was as though the entire circumstance was a foreign concept to him. With a sudden weight of sadness pressing in against her chest, Hermione wondered if anyone had ever done _anything_ for the man without expecting something in return.

A subtle tremor plagued her hands and Hermione slid them beneath her thighs, trying to quell her trembling. Lowering her gaze to her tray, she worried at her lip, the swollen petal oozing crimson into her mouth. Severus Snape _had_ trusted her in a way, she realized. He had confirmed her suspicion what seemed like so many days ago, and did so at great personal risk. As the silence wore on, he lifted his silverware into his hands and began picking at his meal once more.

"May I ask you something?"

His hands, which had been deliberately precise in sawing apart the flank of meat on his plate, froze; slowly, his gaze lifted to her, his impossibly fathomless eyes boring into hers. For a moment, he simply stared at her, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Yes?"

His response was intentionally acerbic, and Hermione couldn't help but feel her resolve waiver as he spoke. It was as though he desired her company but wished not for her conversation; as though someone desiring to know more about him was exhausting and grating.

"If your identity remaining hidden is so vital to your mission, why did you confirm my suspicion?" Hermione asked, her voice cautious.

"Ms. Granger, you act as though I was not your professor for six years," he growled, an amused aura to his voice. "It would have been futile. Especially once you recovered my patient file." He paused, almost pensively, and then added, "I would prefer that you did not preface your every inquiry, Ms. Granger."

"Of course," she nodded. "I may have been persistent – I can't say otherwise, because I'd be lying – but you could have denied it."

"Considering your historic inclination for meddling in matters that did not concern you, I feared you would have only exacerbated the situation," there was a slight snarl in his voice. "In your incessant quest to know _everything_, you would have exposed me."

Hermione stabbed disdainfully at the pasta on her plate, feeling resentful but knowing full well he was most likely right. Severus seemed to notice her fouled mood, and with a small smirk – and a harmlessly sarcastic intonation – he amended:

"However, if I must confess, your company has not been nearly as intolerable as I might have first assumed."

It may have been an evasive attempt at kindness, but Hermione's lips parted in a genuine smile nonetheless. She had suspected for nearly six years his callous character was more of a façade – perhaps one that had become quite difficult to shed, but a charade all the same. His recent behaviors – from his kind consolation to his unexpected congeniality – seemed to support her hypothesis.

_Though, he has been without any company or conversation for a very long time, hasn't he? _Hermione thought, a wrinkle pressing itself into her furrowed brow.

A quiet, rough chuckle escaped the man in the bed, as though her thoughts were playing out before him like a film. "I am _not_ desperate, Ms. Granger. It is rather uncommon to encounter one of my students in the… 'real' world, as it were. Especially," he paused, as if for melodramatic emphasis, "a capable student that may provide interesting conversation."

"So what you're saying," Hermione said, feigning seriousness despite the smile that threatened to tear her cheeks. "Is that you would dread running into Neville Longbottom on the street, but I am an acceptable alternative."

"Barely," he amended.

"I'm _barely_ an acceptable alternative," she corrected, a pleasant laugh shuddering through her body.

"However, I must admit," Severus said, his voice oily in a strangely pleasant way. "If I were forced to choose between you and your two blundering friends…" His voice trailed off, as though he realized that it would be unwise to continue.

His dark eyes flickered from his plate to her face, an odd emotion swimming in the dark depths. Hermione's heart warmed at his consideration and she reached for his arm, her soft hand sliding over his thin forearm, the outline of the silvery scar of the Dark Mark smooth against her fingertips. Gently, she squeezed his hand.

"You would prefer my company over Harry's?" she asked, softly.

In a strange – and rare – display of sensitivity, Severus swallowed hard, turning his eyes from her gaze to stare through the window into the starry sky. His rough thumb came to smooth over her knuckles as his gaze oscillated between the stars that freckled the navy sky.

"Does that surprise you, Ms. Granger?"

"I just – I suppose I just assumed that since you had – well—"

"I_ never_ hated the boy," Severus admitted, withdrawing his hand from hers and grasping his knife once more, carving absently at the slab of meat. "Neither while he was in school, nor now. Despite… appearances."

"I know," Hermione answered quickly. "But… you _were_ quite awful to him. To all of us, really," she added, her voice soft with uncertainty.

Hermione recognized well before the words had ever escaped her that she had essentially ended the conversation. Severus did not betray her suspicion, either; as though indicating his wish to end the conversation, he fixated upon his plate. She found it odd he did not snarl her dismissal, yet instead simply silenced the conversation – but the fact she was not ushered out by his waspish tongue was strangely gratifying.

"I _never_ thought you hated Harry, by the way," she amended, nonchalantly. "He doesn't hate you, either. Not anymore."

"I would expect as much."

"Obviously… he had many questions. I imagine he still does," Hermione added with a small shrug. "He talked about you for quite a long time after… after everything. Things made a lot more sense to him. Why you hated Sirius. The fact you kept your memories in your Pensieve."

A quiet grunt was his only response. Hermione lowered her eyes to her plate, pushing around the cold noodles. She heard Severus clear his throat as though he intended to speak, but a long silence followed the rough sound.

"He wanted to talk to your portrait," Hermione whispered, twisting some noodles around her fork absently. "But you were never there."

A small smirk tugged at the corner of Severus' mouth. "That was a clever trick on Dumbledore's behalf."

"Well, I don't suppose anyone would have thought anything of it. There was no reason to assume you were alive."

"Indeed," Severus growled. "The portrait – of course, Potter _would_ insist on its placement in the Headmaster's office – was created in the weeks prior to Albus'…" The way he struggled over the following word pained Hermione in a way she had never expected. "…death." Swallowing hard, Severus cleared his throat before continuing. "It has a sister frame in the laboratory of my home."

"And that's why Professor McGona—"

"Honestly, girl, I believe you have progressed beyond the arbitrary couth required of you as a student," Severus interrupted, an exasperated and annoyed tone infecting his voice.

"Pardon," Hermione amended with a subtle roll of her eyes. "That's why _Minerva_ never suspected anything?"

"It is rather odd speaking to oneself through a portrait," Severus admitted. "I felt rather foolish, initially, when I had begun my tenure as Headmaster, conversing with Albus' portrait. I can assure you, that foolishness only amplified once I was discussing the going-ons with myself."

"So you have… you have kept tabs on everything that has occurred at Hogwarts?" Hermione pressed.

"Loosely. As you may expect, Minerva consulted with both Albus' and my own portraits," his shoulders rolled in a lackadaisical shrug. "While my portrait-self does not wait with bated breath for the next conference, he does return with news."

Hermione folded her arms across her chest with an admonishing glare. "You instructed your portrait-self to avoid Harry."

A small smirk curled the corner of his mouth as he peered at her. A single brow arched up, creasing his forehead. "Perhaps."

An indignant swell heaved her chest, her lips pursed in reproach. "Severus whatever-the-hell Snape!"

The smile that broke across his features at her flustered anger only served to incite her further. She rose to her feet, the tray clattering to the floor in a dramatic display of her aggravation. As she stepped forward, there was an indistinct _smush_-ing sound as she ground some ration into the floor with her foot. Her hands were thrown in the air in exasperation, her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Do you realize the – do you understand just how – oh, _you_!" she snapped.

"Rambling, Ms. Granger," Severus said, an oily tone to his voice that coursed through her. "It is unbecoming of you."

Leaning forward on her fists, she inched dangerously close to Severus' face, her frantic, indignant breaths brushing against the skin of his face. The smell of her mouth was not necessarily unpleasant, but the indistinguishable combination of various spices and herbs that lingered in the air between them did not aid his appetite any. She did not seem to care, however; neither for the proximity of her face to his nor the scent she breathed onto him. She was frustrated, and the gleam of Severus' eyes only betrayed his amusement to her.

"He wanted nothing more than to thank you for all you had done for him. He wanted to apologize for the doubt he placed in you, for distrusting you," Hermione cried. "And you—you simply—"

In an animated display of her vexation, Hermione threw her hands into the air once more, blowing a noisy sigh through her lips as she backed away from the bed. Snape's careful eyes studied her as she folded her arms across her chest, her lips pursed in a most familiar way, her eyes burning with her irritation.

"Ms. Granger, I assure you," Severus interjected, his voice calm and his silent magic lifting the tray from the floor and righting the mess that had gathered at her feet. "When the time comes—"

"You'll what? Apparate on his doorstep and say, 'Oh, blimey, Harry. Sorry about the past umpteen years. I've been alive, just doing something important and I didn't want to talk to you until I felt ready.'? And expect everything to—"

"Hardly," Severus sneered. "I expect nothing of him. I hardly think I would be a welcome presence on his doorstep. Despite the habituation that indeed occurs whilst enrolled at Hogwarts, I highly doubt he would respond well to the appearance of a presumably deceased man."

Hermione's chest felt as though it would erupt from her outrage. Severus waved his hand dismissively, a slow and deliberate roll of his eyes directing her to be seated once more. Flustered, yet wishing to shed her frustration, Hermione dropped her puerile pose, her arms lowering to her sides.

After a long and silent moment, Hermione breathed an exasperated sigh and sunk into the chair. Her fingers absently picked at the worn leather that had supported the arms of thousands of patients and family before her, the deep brown color faded away until it was nearly as pale as her own flesh. Severus' dark gaze warmed her cheeks as he studied her, his eyes smoothing over her face as he awaited her next move.

"Why? I don't understand," she admitted finally. "What is your aversion to talking with Harry?"

Shaking her head as though in denial, Hermione tore her eyes from him. She stared beyond him through the window, the sky a fiery orange as the sun began its descent behind the horizon. She simply could not fathom how the man – who had pledged his life to protecting Harry – could claim disinterest in socializing with him.

"Really, Ms. Granger," there was an amused glitter in his black eyes as he studied her. "You speak as though the portrait is actually me."

Frowning, Hermione turned her attention back to him. "You very well know what I mean, Sev. You have directed your portrait-self to avoid Harry like he was the plague. You have denied him the closure he needs to finally place the past behind him. Have you no idea just how your memories affected him?"

"He seems to be faring better than Weasley."

Whatever flashed across Hermione's features in the seconds following his bold statement, a similarly brief expression of remorse flickered across his. There was fleeting warmth in Severus' eyes; it was almost as though, despite being a man of control and restraint, he had failed to curb his cynical tongue and the words that escaped him were goading only through habit. The look of guilt that swam in his eyes was replaced by a defensive coldness, an emptiness Hermione had not seen in some time. And yet, she didn't care. The words were said. The damage, done.

The silence that hung in the air was not unlike the haunting shadows that clung to the corners of the room. Hermione breathed in an unsteady breath; her heart thumped so violently in her chest, the sound of her blood coursing through her veins pumped in her ears. Her emotions were rampant with little she could do to harness them; the shock that he would say such a thing turned to sadness at the mention of Ron to anger that Snape believed he had any right to outrage that the thought had ever crossed his mind. And Snape – well, Snape seemed more than aware of the hailstorm raging violently within the carefully-manicured façade that Hermione had presented to him.

She wanted to believe his intention had not been to hurt her; she couldn't imagine anything he could possibly gain from such a goal. And yet, she seemed to have forgotten the man with whom she was dealing. Severus was the subtlest of assassins; he could twist the blade within the wound before you had ever realized you were bleeding. His blade was his words; her wound was her broken heart.

Her eyelids flickered closed for a moment as she tried, once more, to steady her jagged breath. Drawing her lip into her teeth, she chewed at it until it oozed crimson. For a silent moment, her gaze searched the room, lingering on the shadowed corners and the surfaces that glowed in the setting sunlight. When she finally returned her gaze to the man lying beside her, she released a soft sigh.

To erupt in his presence would devastate the structure of trust she was attempting to erect. Like a game of Jenga, she knew she only needed one opportunity to try the wavering strength of his trust; if she removed the wrong block, the entire tower would crumble between her fingers and there wasn't a damn thing she could do to stop it.

_Forgive and forget._

Rolling one of her shoulders and then the other, Hermione loosened the tightening tension that grew in her muscles as she stood before the seemingly emotionless man. And yet, she knew better – he was far from devoid of emotion. A man who had risked life and limb for the son of a woman he loved – Hermione was as guilty as anyone else for romanticizing him. Returning her gaze to his face, she willed her anger to finally fade.

"I think just about _anyone_ is faring better than Ron," she finally said, forcing an indifferent smile.

If he had been expecting her to say something, what actually slipped from her mouth was not it. A curious expression settled into his countenance, his brow furrowing and the corner of his mouth twitching.

"So it would seem," he replied, lifting a bite of roasted potato to his mouth.

The next several minutes passed without a word. Hermione was staring disinterestedly at her tray, listening to Snape's silverware tap against the china of his plate. When finally he finished, she tapped her wand against the trays, vanishing them from view. When it did not seem that conversation was impending, he reached for the stack of journals – which, Hermione noticed, was growing ever shorter.

"Sev," she said quietly, rising from the chair. "May I?" With a gesture to his abdomen, she began loosening the modesty ribbon that secured his gown.

Lowering the magazine into his lap, he brushed Hermione's hands away from his neck and rolled the gown down on his own. With a concealed smile – she furrowed her brow and tried to force the downward tug of her lips – Hermione allowed him the bit of freedom he had taken to appreciating. When finally his chest was exposed to her, she reached for a pair of gloves and drew them over her fingers.

"Do you see this, here?" With a gloved finger, she prodded the rebellious wound.

With his chin pressed to his chest, Snape followed her direction. When his gaze finally landed on the injury, Hermione continued. "The rest of your wounds are holding together well with the stitches. But this one" – and with a tender touch, she fingered the angry edges of the laceration – "continues to pull. With few options left, I think it is about time we try the alternative treatment."

"The one you have been so hesitant to begin," Snape said, his voice quiet.

"Precisely," Hermione replied. "I'm going to prepare the potions tonight. After maturing for twelve hours, they will need to be immediately administered."

"Very well, Ms. Granger."

With a flick of her wrist, she gestured for Severus to pull the ribbon closed around his neck once more. Slipping off the gloves, she discarded them and set her hands against her hips.

"Once I set the potions to mature, I _will_ be returning home for the evening." Tipping her head in the direction of his breast pocket, she smiled. "If you need anything."

* * *

><p>It was nearing eleven o'clock when Hermione finally closed the apothecary. Two cauldrons were set to simmer overnight; as she had explained to Severus, in twelve hours, they would be immediately administered. She knew it would be an uncomfortable process for the man and as much as she was loath to inflict such a thing upon him, she knew she had little choice in the matter.<p>

She had little doubt that he knew precisely the weaponry of his assailants. The characteristics of the wounds indicated a poison that disturbed healing, which, in itself, was not difficult to counteract. The challenging aspect of his treatment was that she was no closer to an answer than when he had laid, battle-scarred and bleeding, on the bed in the emergency ward.

Restless feet carried her down the stairwell and through the main entrance to the hospital. The soft golden lamplight offered little more illumination than the moon's own feeble glow. Passing by the lamps, the flitter of insect wings against the glass broke the silence of the late night. Casting a long glance over the road before her, Hermione decided she would follow the longer route home; anxiousness drove away all thoughts of rest.

Turning to follow the sidewalk, Hermione's quiet heels clicked softly against the pavement. Her pace was slow and there was no hurry; idly walking, her mind wandered as her feet guided the way.

An interesting feature she had discovered about Snape was his aversion to spontaneity. If he maintained control of the course of a conversation, his waspish tongue and crass sarcasm reigned. The moment the interaction steered away from his tight grasp, however, he grew agitated and apprehensive. She suspected it was the cause of his aversion to her questions; while he had the ability to learn her intention before she even spoke, she hardly thought he abused the power.

Was it such spontaneity that earned him his admission in the hospital to begin with, she wondered? Did he encounter an enemy whose mind was a blank slate, therefore prohibiting Severus from knowing clearly his opponent's next move? It was dangerous circumstance, and if it had been to blame for his unease when she governed the interaction, she could not honestly blame him. His perspicacity had been his strength; without it, he was vulnerable.

Tucking her hands into the pockets of her robes, she breathed in a heavy sigh. A breeze drifted through the air, tickling the back of her neck and raising gooseflesh along her skin. It was a cool night, and fleetingly, Hermione regretted forgetting a traveling cloak. With a whispered incantation, she was protected from the biting breeze, a warming charm settling in around her.

Had she been asked as a student if she ever expected Professor Snape to be responsible for the emotional turmoil she had experienced in recent days, she would have laughed. Certainly, there was confusion about him; one could never be certain whose side he was truly on. Hermione had always hoped Dumbledore's trust was not misplaced, though the ancient wizard never gave a single reason why he was so certain. But nevertheless, a tiny bead of hope remained, despite all that Snape had done.

_All that he had done…_ As she thought on his actions, she felt pressure behind her breastbone as though her heart was crushed under the knowledge. How truly lonely the man must have felt in the year following the arranged murder of Dumbledore.

_It wasn't really murder though, was it? Euthanasia. _

Hermione had never understood the debate surrounding the controversy; she always believed it was one's own right to die, if death was unavoidable. From what Harry had explained to her, Dumbledore's death was indeed inevitable. A bubble of anger rose in her chest as she considered precisely what it was Dumbledore requested of Severus; an incredibly selfish behest. Dumbledore had been, quite possibly, Snape's only remaining confidante. He certainly was the only man to _know _Severus. How could he have ever asked such a terrible favor?

He needed her. It explained everything. Severus Snape needed Hermione, and he knew it as well as she did. And it frustrated him. He had gone so long without having anyone; to suddenly rely so strongly on another human being made him vulnerable, and Severus was uncomfortable with such vulnerability. It explained everything from the rapid oscillation of his moods to his desire for her company. It all made sense. And it left her with a bittersweet taste.

When Hermione arrived at her doorstep, she was admittedly quite surprised to find herself standing outside her apartment complex. She had no conscious grasp on her location, and as though her feet had known the way to go, they had guided her safely home. The building was nearly silent as she padded up the stairwell. Turning the doorknob to her own apartment, she slipped quietly through the door and locked it behind her.

* * *

><p>When Hermione abandoned his rooms that evening, Severus was left with bittersweet feelings. Her presence – and his knowledge that she was without a partner anymore – stirred strange emotions within him. Despite all that had transpired between them within the short amount of time she lingered in his room, the only verse that repeated in his mind was the one he found most… most what?<p>

"_You have spent too much of your life at the bidding of others. I will not force you into a situation like that. You have choices here. You can choose to trust me, and you can choose to confide in me. I just want you to know to what lengths I am going to keep you safe."_

She understood far more than he accredited her for. With her limited knowledge – he had no clue the extent to which Potter had enlightened her, but from what she had said, it seemed scant – she understood very well the general course of his life.

Shifting his legs beneath the covers, he released a quiet groan as the taut musculature stretched in the movement. A luxurious wave of pleasure washed over him, bringing to mind the memory of her massage and the way she loosened his limbs each day. Even considering his injuries – his hand gently roamed over the wound she would treat aggressively in the morning – his body felt strangely renewed.

With a small shrug, he realized he never questioned her regarding his nightly prescriptions; he had suspected for awhile she was slipping him a sleeping potion, but with an indifferent realization he understood it was irrelevant. Despite the disturbance of dreams, the rest was rejuvenating and surely contributing to his recovery. He was almost certain he slept better in recent days than in his entire life; the feeling of security she managed to provide him was no doubt a contributing factor.

"_You have choices here."_

For once, he was not at the mercy of a superior. Neither a deranged and paranoid warlock nor the Machiavellian sorcerer, Severus Snape was granted choice. He was allowed options; freedom was his.

"_You can choose to trust me, and you can choose to confide in me."_

His dark eyes were fixed on the far wall, though he was unseeing. Hermione had gone to such lengths to prove she was trustworthy. She had risked her own employment to ensure he was safe. Severus would have wagered she would risk her life if it meant to keep him safe, and while he abhorred the thought of her blood on his hands, he could not help but admit to himself the warm feeling of being cared for.

She cared about him. He suspected it surpassed her obligatory care-giving; she had exposed herself to him in such a way to allow him to witness her at her most vulnerable. She had confided in him that which he doubted she shared with anyone else. She wept before him. He was audience to her separation from her fiancé. Her blind trust in him was both foolish and endearing.

Turning his sightless gaze to the darkening sky beyond his window, starless in its overcast gloom, he released a quiet sigh. Granger – _Hermione_ – would be the death of him. She cared, and caring would only end in pain. It would elicit carelessness; caring would lead to irrational decisions and ignorant valor. Though as his rationality tried to force her away, his emotionality longed to keep her close. There was something painfully familiar about her; her mannerisms, her etiquette – it was all warming in a way he had not experienced for a very long time.

Slipping the smooth pages of the journal between his rough fingertips, Severus lowered her gaze to his lap. The subscription from which he read had not been on his list – Hermione provided it for him with the thought he may enjoy it. She had been right; it was a normal charms periodical, but the particular issue she had given him detailed what were called "linking" charms – a particular magic that had both laced his Mark and the coin she had provided him. It was not an unknown topic to him, of course, but it was an interesting intimate review of the form of magic.

Drawing his finger across his lower lip, Severus stared at the open pages for a very long time. It was nearly impossible for him to focus his mind; no matter what he tried to preoccupy himself with, Hermione invaded. When had he even begun thinking of her as 'Hermione?' It drew her closer to him in a way which he was uncomfortable; it personified her in a way that was unacceptable. She was his Healer and that was what she would remain. She was wrong; he did not have choices.

"_Headmaster."_

_The gloomy night sky burst to life with a bright explosion of lightning, the streak dancing across the velvet darkness. The rush of light cast Albus in a haunting silhouette, the ancient wizard standing before the great windows of his office, staring pensively into the courtyard below. Severus' fists pressed against the hard surface of his desk, trembling arms fighting to support his weight as his willpower began to wane._

"_Do not make me do this, Albus."_

"_Severus, you gave your word."_

_A loud _crack_ reverberated through the room as Severus slammed his fist onto the desk, his rising anger overwhelming any restraint. With the sharp sound, Albus turned on his heel to face the younger wizard, his pale blue eyes icy chips of indifference._

"_Have you no idea what _he_ will force me to do?" Severus demanded, his chest broadening in his indignation as he stared disdainfully at the man across from him._

"_I certainly do, Severus. And it is irrelevant."_

_With flaring nostrils, Severus turned away from the Headmaster, his black robes billowing around his feet. As they came to settle in elegant folds, he drew the hood over his hair, the silvery glow of the mask in his hand glittering in the soft candlelight._

"_It is justified, Severus. You must remember that."_

"_There is no justification for what will take place tonight, Albus."_

* * *

><p>"Good morning, Sev," Hermione greeted. A quiet <em>tink<em>-ing came from her pockets, her fingers lazily toying with the vials there.

With a slow nod, Severus acknowledged her but did not tear his gaze from the newspaper. His Healer did not seem at all concerned with it; instead, she simply emptied her pockets of the vials and began preparing his standard morning cocktail. Absently, he drew the goblet from her hand, lifting it to his lips and swallowing the solution, his eyes still focused on the article.

"If you're interested, I've… thought of a way of avoiding anyone else identifying you while you're here," she began, retrieving the goblet from him and cleansing it of any lingering potion.

Lowering the newspaper, Severus peered at her through his lashes. Slowly, one black eyebrow crept up his forehead as he waited for her answer. She turned from him, pouring a yellowish potion into the goblet and churning it with her wand.

"I'll destroy your old file."

She may have just commented on the weather, her voice held such apathy. She passed him the goblet once again and as he drank the solution within, his eyes never left her face. The potion slipped down his throat like water and he returned the cup to her. Surely what she was proposing was not as anticlimactic as she was suggesting. Destroying a patient file, something which was hospital property?

"Is that a viable option, Ms. Granger?" Severus asked, grimacing as the aftertaste of the potion struck his taste buds.

With a roll of her shoulders, Hermione came to his bedside. "I'm willing to take the risk. Lower your robe, will you?"

With a slow nod, Severus unfastened the ribbon around his neck, lowering his gown to his lap. Hermione's fingers crept into a pair of gloves, curling around the material until they were comfortable to contain her hands. Bringing another vial out of her pocket, Hermione twirled the neck of it in her fingers, the dark solution within sloshing against the glass.

"This is my last resort for your wounds, Severus. If this doesn't heal these injuries, I'm not sure what _will_." She leaned over him, her elbow supporting her weight against the mattress. "This will be very uncomfortable."

"I would not expect anything else, Ms. Granger."

A small, apologetic laugh escaped her as she drew the stopper from the vial. "Take a deep breath, Severus."

She did not allow him much time between his sharp intake of breath and the sudden application of the potion. She tipped the vial in her fingers, the liquid pouring into the wound that seemed determined to tear away from its stitches. Severus had expected the sigh of the devilish potion she had been applying, and the silence that accompanied the application was unnerving. It was a brief second before the pain settled into his body; the explosion of agony plaguing him not only at the sight of application but throughout his entire abdomen, as though every nerve-ending in his body was firing off and protesting in pain.

The pain that burst from his jaw as he ground his teeth was pittance in comparison to the overwhelming torture that surged through him. It was as though Hermione had driven a searing blade into the wound, dragging it across his stomach and gutting him. Tears began running silent tracks down his cheeks as his abdominal muscles began convulsing against the pain. From beyond his own grunts of agony, he heard Hermione whisper something; in a split second, his arms and legs were secured to the posts of his bed, prohibiting him from curling into himself against the pain.

As the pain dissipated – and a slow fade it was – Severus finally opened his eyes. He had not noticed the black spots that tarnished his vision when his eyelids were clenched against the agony, but they began to shrink the longer he lay blinking at the ceiling. Hermione was seated beside him, her fingers clutched tight around her wand. Her eyes were glossy, as though to witness such writhing pain was an emotional toll upon her as well.

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered, her voice tremulous.

Turning his gaze from her to the ceiling, Severus tried to grasp his faculties. The spoken word seemed to escape him, and as he stared at the white ceiling, he tried to combine words to form comprehensible sentences but the aftershock of pain continued interrupting his attempts. He felt Hermione's warm hand close around his secured forearm, the pressure of her palm pressing in against his Mark.

Finally, English seemed tangible.

"I… understand why you… hesitated," he managed.

A small, pleasant laugh escaped her and she slid her fingers along his forearm. She was tracing the shape of his Mark, slender fingertips following the contours of the skull and the serpent. The tender touch tickled gooseflesh along his arms, her fingers smoothing through the prickly skin.

After a moment, she finally released his bindings; his wrists and ankles fell loose from the posts. He made no move to draw the limbs into the bed, however – his muscles were screaming in protest at the barest of movements. Her fingers only abandoned his forearm to lace within his own.

"Imagine if I had to apply it to each of these wounds," she whispered, her eyebrows furrowed in her frown.

"I would rather not," Severus growled, his fingers tightening around her hand.

After a quiet moment, he shook her hand from his, scowling at the pain suffusing his muscles as he brought his limbs to a reasonable position on his bed. Hermione rose to adjust the blankets over his bony feet, her eyes lingering on the strange elegance of his long toes, the soft tuft of black hair that danced along the tops of his feet. His ankles were narrow, as one would expect of a man who was so thin; as she glanced to his face, she smiled as she noticed the filling of his hollow cheeks.

Drawing the blanket over his feet, Hermione rested her hand against his bony shin. "You are looking better every day."

With an amused wag of his eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugged into a smirk. His dark eyes passed over her face, her cheeks stained with the faintest of flushes. With a gentle squeeze, she bade her silent farewell, turning on her heel and leaving him to his own devices as she tended to the rest of her duties for the morning.


	8. Chapter 8

Rating: M – inappropriate for readers under the age of 16; contains scenes of explicit sexuality and violence.  
>Disclaimer: Characters and settings ©J.K. Rowling.<p>

Author's Note: It was brought to my attention by a very conscientious reviewer that I made an assumption that all of my readers would understand my intent with the disillusionment charm in a previous chapter. My belief is that if individuals are disillusioned by the _same_ caster, they are able to see each other. I never saw any indication that this would be false in my research, so I'm using it to my advantage. Thank you for being so constructive in your reviews, guys! You've no idea how much I appreciate it! Please don't hesitate to point out inconsistencies that you may see – I don't have a beta, so when I'm reading and re-reading my chapters before I post them, I may miss something that is unclear or contradictory.

**Potions, Plans, and Second Chances**

K. Marie

**Chapter 8**

As time progressed, Severus' recovery was astounding; it seemed with every passing hour, Hermione found herself performing less of Severus' personal tasks as he regained his independence. Granted, it had taken several days to arrive at a point where he was capable of significant movement, but had he been admitted to a Muggle hospital – well, Hermione doubted he would have shown any improvement at all.

Severus was able to follow her direction with his range-of-motion exercises with each examination (much to his relief, she suspected); Hermione refused to acknowledge the ache of disappointment that she could only assume resulted from the fact she had one less excuse to feel him beneath her fingers.

The stubborn unhealing wound had finally succumbed to treatment; after the unpleasant application Monday morning, it ceased tugging at its stitches, finally beginning the slow process of sealing itself. Much to their mutual relief, too – Severus wasn't too thrilled about having to endure the experience again and Hermione was not one to enjoy inflicting such pain, even for the betterment of her patients.

Silently, Hermione cursed herself for being so hesitant to administer it in the first place. Of course, she had not known if it would be successful, and so really, she could not be blamed. If she had, Severus may have been eligible for discharge had she gone ahead—but there was nothing for it now. He was finally recovering as she had hoped, and even without knowing the weaponry of his assailants, he may be healthy enough to leave the hospital within days. For some reason, the thought of his discharge inspired a dull ache within her heart.

Tuesday morning, Severus awoke to the sickening scent of his own body. Had it been three days since his shower? With a frown, Severus realized his concept of time was nearly nonexistent; he would have to remember to request a calendar and a clock the next time his Healer passed through. Pulling his fingers through his hair, he grimaced at the texture of his roots; for all the names his students had been so clever to conjure during his tenure at Hogwarts, "greasy" had been the most accurate – as long as Severus had been unable to shower.

Like clockwork – he assumed, as he had no clock to refer to – the gentle _tap tap tap_ of slender knuckles announced her presence, the whine of aging hinges stretching through the room as she pushed open the door. With a quiet _snick_, the door was closed, and in a whisper of fabric and gentle footsteps, Hermione appeared around the curtain.

Her amber eyes were glossy as though she had just woken, smudgy shadows circling her eyes and exaggerating her sleepless gaze. In her fatigue, the fine lines around her mouth – laugh lines, he thought pleasantly, from when his mother had described her own deeper-set wrinkles – seemed deeper somehow, as though the life she had lived had aged her significantly. And of course, it would have, wouldn't it? She had seen more in her twenty-some years than most witches would see in a lifetime. With a small smile, she offered an arbitrary greeting to Severus, her fingers massaging the bags beneath her eyes.

She looked so tired and yet he couldn't imagine why. Had Weasley paid her visit the evening prior? Had she spent her entire night pondering the consequences for destroying hospital property? Perhaps she had been thinking of him—

_Nonsense, Severus. Since when have you been one to grow so pathetically hopeful over the pining of a woman?_

The usual small talk of the morning filled the silence while Hermione fussed over the medicine cabinet, her hands rummaging through the drawer to pluck out the proper vials. A question about sleep quality, if there was anything else he needed – a bedpan, perhaps? – and a genial suggestion that as long as his wound continued holding, perhaps ambulation was impending.

As Severus tipped his head back, swallowing his morning potions, his breakfast tray appeared at the foot of his bed. Hermione withdrew the goblet from his hand, replacing it atop the medicine cabinet; her busy hands then grasped the tray and gestured to lay it across his lap.

"Actually, Ms. Granger," Severus began before she laid the meal across his thighs. "I would like a shower."

"Of course," Hermione replied with a nod, replacing the tray on the table. "In that case, I need to examine you." With a quick flick of her wand, he assumed his meal would be kept hot as they proceeded with his request.

When Hermione drew in near to him, her touch was fleeting and gentle, skimming over the flesh of his limbs. He circled his own shoulders in their sockets, mimicking her guidance; she still assisted him with the flexion at his hip, though only just. Her assessment slowed dramatically as she returned to his abdomen, gloved fingers smoothing over the mended bones and along the borders of his stitched wounds. Each wound glowed with a golden hue, the effects of that dreaded little vial; the largest of his lacerations did not glow at all, and as Hermione pressed her fingers against the lip, Severus winced as a wave of pain coursed through him.

With a thoughtful hum, Hermione withdrew from his bedside for a moment, returning to the medicine cabinet. A creaky drawer rolled open, a different one than she usually browsed, and after a quiet moment of searching, she withdrew a small roll of what appeared to be tape.

As she turned towards him, she waved the roll in the air. "This is a waterproof bandage of sorts. I would normally cast the charm, but I don't want to alter the properties of the potion, and quite honestly… I'm not _entirely_ certain how the two will interact. It is not as though they are commonly introduced to one another, and I have not yet had the opportunity to research the matter."

With a slow nod, Severus laid back into his pillows. Hermione returned to his bedside, her hands gingerly applying the tape over the belligerent wound. Despite the delicacy she tended him with, the pressure against the borders of the injury still sent violent tendrils of agony twisting through him, as though the nerve endings were still ablaze from when she applied the potion in the first place.

Finally, she withdrew her hands, slipping the gloves over her fingertips and disposing of them. With knuckles pressed against her hips, Hermione considered him with a small tilt of her head. Severus fastened the ribbon around his neck, covering his bare chest with the thin patient gown.

"How strong are you feeling?" she asked.

"Strong enough to walk myself to the wheelchair," Severus growled.

With a small smile, Hermione's eyes blazed with something; she turned with an impressive swirl of lime-green – as impressive as a swirl of lime-green could be, anyway – and disappeared behind the curtain and through the creaky door. A moment later she returned, the squeal of wheels filling the room as she guided the wheelchair to his bedside.

"As we've done before," Hermione began, coming to his side to assist him to standing.

Slowly, Severus swung his legs over the side of his bed, the slight chill of the air raising prickly flesh along the hairy skin. Touching the pads of his feet to the cool tile floor, he sat for a moment; Hermione wriggled her way beneath his arm, her own hand coming round to grasp his bony hip. The warmth that flanked him from either side was calming in a way; the scent of her hair and her body lingered between them, overpowering his own odor. In a fleeting feeling of shame, Severus hoped he was not unpleasant to stand beside.

"On three," Hermione said, her grasp on either side of him tightening as she flexed her fingers.

"One," his voice joined hers. "Two… three."

With a quiet grunt, Hermione supported his weight as he leaned into her, her feet firmly planted against the ground. His eyes were fixed on the chair before him, small steps sliding across the floor, the gritty feeling of tiny grains of dirt grinding beneath his fleshy pads. A moment later, Severus' hands were wrapped tightly around the arms of the wheelchair and he was maneuvering himself in a small circle. With small hands tightly grasping his hips, he lowered himself into the wheelchair; a long, relieved breath escaped him noisily through his lips.

Kneeling down before him, Hermione set her hands on his lap, her amber eyes searching his face. "How are you feeling?"

"Worse than I would like to admit," Severus replied.

"But you _aren't_ gasping for air or having a panic attack," Hermione jested, rising to her feet with a small, pleasant laugh. "And that is much of an improvement."

As the wheelchair began its journey towards the shower room, Hermione remained by its side, her fingers wrapped around one of the handles. "You have much greater range this time, Severus. If you would like—"

"As much as I appreciate your offer, Ms. Granger, I am afraid I am still dependent upon you," Severus interjected, turning his gaze to meet hers. "However, the pretenses of this experience are no different than before, in my opinion." With an uncharacteristic smile, Severus asked, "Who are you, again?"

As though misunderstanding his sorry attempt at a joke, Hermione's eyebrows furrowed in concern. As he continued looking at her, the smirk on his face never waning but one black eyebrow creeping up his forehead, her features softened, her cheeks staining red.

"Oh! Yes, right," she said, flustered. "Your _Healer_. Healer Granger."

With a gruff chuckle, Severus shook his head. "Ms. Granger, you may be the most improper and unethical Healer this hospital has employed," he began, a playful glint glittering in the depths of his eyes. "But lest we forget you _are_ my Healer, and for the time-being, that is _all_ you shall be."

Ducking her head, Severus suspected Hermione was attempting to hide the ever-growing flush that reddened her face. When they finally reached the showering room, she hurried forward to hold open the door for the rolling wheelchair. Footsteps and creaky wheels echoed against the tiled walls; with a whisper, Hermione charmed her robes to expel water, and cast the same spell upon the chair. With another flick of her wrist, the faucets opened and the room was filled with the sound of rushing water. Severus raised his arms to remove the gown, discarding it on the floor.

The chair rolled forward and Severus could not help the pleasured groan that escaped him as the hot water flowed over his body. For a long moment, he simply sat there, enjoying the feeling of heat rolling over him.

Somewhere behind him, Hermione's voice bounced off the walls. "If you need my help with anything…"

"Of course, Ms. Granger."

With his hand raised, a silent incantation rehearsed in his mind, the bottle of shampoo lifted to his hand. Though the tension in his shoulder had long since been relieved, Severus found himself apprehensive to begin washing his hair; the feeling of dependence that accompanied Hermione's assistance with washing his hair – despite the luxurious feel of her fingers against his scalp – was nearly as loathsome as the subservience itself. As he raised his arms and began the task, he breathed a soft sigh.

"Your shoulder is doing better, then?" Hermione asked, as though she were aware of the turmoil of his mind.

"Indeed."

Hermione said nothing in response, and as Severus cast her a glance over his shoulder he noticed she was busily folding and re-folding his towels, as though to keep her hands busy and her eyes averted. It was a tiny gesture, but it spoke volumes to Severus; with a small smirk, he smoothed his hands over his wet hair, rinsing away the soap.

The task of washing his body would not come so easily. When Hermione registered his grunts and groans as discomfort and struggle, she rounded his chair; with a washcloth in her hand and an expression flustering her features as though she were trying desperately to focus only on his face, she began gently cleansing his legs and feet. Her hands roamed over sinewy muscles, her firm fingers massaging his calves as she rinsed away the soap. Her ginger touch maneuvered around his thighs as well, her eyes focused beyond his shoulder as she tenderly scrubbed his skin. Quiet sounds escaped him as her hands smoothed over him; pleasured sounds he knew he ought to suppress, and yet he didn't care.

The water moved over her like she was made of glass; droplets formed at her crown and rolled down her face without leaving a trail. Water clung like diamonds to her eyelashes and as she blinked, the drops fell to Severus' lap. As he watched her clean him, her gaze carefully averted towards the wall, he drank in the beauty of her; for a moment, he imagined her like a marbled statue, one of the statues that guarded the halls of Hogwarts. Her cheeks were stained and he couldn't tell if it was because of the heat or because of her proximity to him, but it was irrelevant; the red flush of her cheeks only intensified his attraction to her, and he inhaled deeply, his senses somehow managing to ignore the plain scented soap to detect the aroma of _her_. So familiar, so soothing.

As his body began to respond to her presence, he breathed, "Ms. Granger…"

Her gaze shot to him, her amber eyes widened but not panicked; despite the steam rising from the water surrounding them, he could feel the heat of her breath on his face.

"What is it, Sev?" she asked, quietly, the rapid saccade of her eyes roaming his face. Her eyelashes fluttered as reflex forced her to blink as water danced along her eyelids.

"I can manage from here," he growled, leaning forward before she backed away. A depraved gesture, perhaps, but his body brushed against her breasts and the whispering contact only encouraged his reaction to her.

She recoiled, her hands reaching out to grasp his shoulders. "Are you certain?"

With a rough jerk, he shook her hands from his shoulders. Hermione backed away from him with a quiet 'tut,' a puddle forming around her feet as droplets rolled off of her. Her quiet step echoed in the confines of the small tile room.

In his mind, Severus began reciting potions ingredients; his hands rested atop his thighs, a strategically-arranged washcloth over his groin. Allowing his eyes to flicker close, he breathed in deeply through flaring nostrils; Hermione was indeed an attractive woman, but did it warrant such a depraved reaction from him?

_For Merlin's sake, Severus. You're behaving as though you've never known the touch of a woman. Billywig sting slime. Boomslang skin. Griffin claw. Rat spleen. _

Severus smoothed his hands over his skin, rinsing it clean of the soapy residue. Casting a sidelong glance over his shoulder, he caught sight of his Healer; her hands were, once again, seeking preoccupation by folding and refolding the soft white towels that rested against the sink. The sound of flowing water nearly drowned the sound of her footsteps as she moved anxiously. Severus' face broke in a small smile as he tipped his face into the stream of water; in a moment of weakness, perhaps, or sentimentality, he wondered how he had never noticed her more charming characteristics in the past.

_Because she was your bloody student. Are you mad? _

Shaking his head as thought trying to shed from it his improper thoughts, Severus rolled his wheelchair back out of the water. A soft towel came around his shoulder as the water's fall stopped abruptly; his fingers grasped the towel quickly, tucking it into his lap and reaching for the second he knew she had brought. As she passed it into his hands, Hermione stood back away from him, allowing him a moment to dry himself off.

A moment later, his Healer was behind him once more, her gentle hands smoothing a third towel over his long hair, wringing out the excess water. Soon, she was pulling a brush tenderly through the length of black curtain, easing out the tangles. Her fingers soon followed, gently massaging his scalp as she combed through his hair. Severus released a soft groan; the ways she made him feel were indescribable and comparable only to one other person. A genuine smile parted his lips as he reminisced, pretty emerald eyes glittering in his memory.

"_Sev," her voice was sing-songy as she spoke. "Let me brush your hair?"_

"_Why would you want to do that?" Severus asked, lifting a clump of lank black hair from his shoulder._

_With a sweet smile, Lily turned her head to the side, drawing her lip into her teeth. Her piercing eyes skittered over his face, darting from his own eyes to his crown and down to his chin and shoulders._

"_Just let me," she pleaded, crawling across her bed to where he sat at the head._

_Turning his hips, he hung his legs over the side of her bed. Her legs flanked his hips from behind, her body pressing into his back as she leaned towards her vanity. Her thin fingers wrapped around the handle of the brush, drawing it in toward her; her other hand was busy combing delicately through the length of his hair._

The _splish_ of dripping water echoed off the tile walls as Hermione passed a crisp gown over Severus' shoulder. The steam that thickened the air had begun dissipating, but its heat still drew sweat to his skin; wiping the warm towel over his face, he turned to Hermione. She seemed to be suffering the same; her forehead and cheeks were shiny, a pink flush staining her cheeks.

Drawing the gown over his shoulders, Severus fastened it around his neck and rolled the wheelchair towards his Healer. Lifting the damp towels from his lap, Hermione opened the door to allow him exit. The chair rolled slowly, the cool air of the hallway prickling gooseflesh along his exposed skin. A moment later they were passing through his doorway.

"It is a bit more difficult to transfer from your wheelchair to the bed," Hermione began, sliding her fingers along her wand absently. "I'm not certain your body is ready for that."

"I trust your expertise, Ms. Granger," he replied.

With a flick of her wand, Severus was levitating in the air towards his bed. As he drifted past her towards his bed, he drank in the scent of clean linens and floral perfume, an intoxicating combination that reminded him of comfort. As he was laid down into bed, he eased himself beneath the covers, pulling the sheet over his lap.

"Can I get you anything else?" Hermione asked, smoothing her hand over the soft blanket.

With a gruff grunt and a shake of his head, Severus reached for the tray of food. He wished for solitude for the time-being to gather his thoughts, and with her constant interrogation, he knew that was something he would never receive. With a gentle squeeze of his thigh, she turned and left.

Bringing the fork to his mouth, Severus chewed absently at a piece of dry hotcake. He did not have much of an appetite at the moment, and after a long and laborious mastication, he pushed the tray aside once more, instead drawing the mug of black coffee into his hands and sipping from its cool contents. Soon, a journal found its place in his lap, and his eyes glossed over the words.

Heaving a deep breath, Severus lowered the magazine he had no interest in reading. The pages rustled as a breeze carried through the window, the aroma of foliage never growing old as Severus drank in the fresh air. Dragging his hand across his chin, fingers smoothing over the roughness of his beard, Severus stared out the window.

He was finally beginning to understand why he was so drawn to Hermione. The usual excuse would, in all likelihood, always apply; but it certainly seemed feasible to admit there was more to his attraction to her. Her voice, her temper, her warmth, her loyalty – it was all painfully familiar. It was not a coincidence that Lily was preoccupying much of his mind in recent days, much more than what was normal. He was slowly coming to accept that.

Hermione Granger was certainly _not_ dissimilar to Lily Potter. It was no mystery why Lily's son had taken to the clever witch as he had; Dumbledore had mentioned it in the past, though Severus disregarded the bold comparison. Then, Severus would never accept there was ever another woman who could be so kind, so caring, so loving, so dedicated, as Lily Evans. Then, Severus refused to acknowledge the possibility of another woman claiming his heart.

_What are you talking about, Severus? You have no heart._

With an incredulous scoff, Severus laughed. An icy laugh, of course, because the thought that he was _caring_ for Hermione was absurd; there was no _emotional_ attachment to the woman. His was hardly an emotional investment; he was simply lusting for her. She had developed into quite an attractive woman, even the alluring scent of her body – pheromones – had drawn him in.

_You are obviously in denial, Severus._

His eyes narrowed dangerously as he stared out the window, his fingers curling knots into the blanket. He could not ignore the way his heart seemed to swell in her presence, nor the inarguable tug at his cheeks whenever she entered his room. There were fleeting moments when he wished to divulge all she sought to know, despite the dangers it would pose to her well-being.

Then, of course, the unacceptable instances of weakness when he wished for nothing more than to draw her into his arms. The yearning to taste her on his lips, to feel her breasts pressed into his chest, the warmth of her body against his. The comfort that swelled within him when she laced her fingers in his was overwhelming; if he were to claim her…

Despite his asinine sarcasm, despite his icy demeanor, despite their history – and he had been _very _unkind to her, after all – she was constantly willing to forgive and forget. She was willing to start fresh as though nothing had transpired between them.

_Foolish._

With a sneer, Severus returned the tray of food to his lap, absently picking through the bland meal.

* * *

><p>That evening, after most of St. Mungo's employees had vacated the hospital, Hermione wandered down to the history department. With a quiet "<em>Alohamora<em>" the door unlocked, and Hermione swung it open gently on its creaky, aging hinges. As she stepped foot within the enormous hall, it grew to life with candlelight flickering into existence, soft yellows and oranges filling the room.

Quietly, Hermione closed the door. Each time she entered the department she was forced to, first, simply gaze in awe at its pure size. She had no doubt the record of every wizard and witch who had ever been admitted to the hospital was carefully kept there. Breathing a steadying sigh, she gathered her nerve.

"_Accio_ Severus Snape file," she whispered, her wand brandished in the direction of the towering shelving units.

As she waited in the entrance hall of the history department, the sound of flapping wings echoed against the walls. The louder the sound grew, the closer the file approached, until it landed in her hands. Staring at the folder, a wave of nausea swept over her. The record was hospital property and if it were ever discovered she tampered with it – or destroyed it, as she intended – the consequences were grave. And yet, she knew to ensure the safety of her patient, it was a necessary evil. What were the odds that anyone would search for a file of a man long deceased?

Tucking the file under her arm, Hermione turned to leave the department. A shuddering breath escaped her as she turned the doorknob, her anxiety rising every minute she was in possession of the record she intended to destroy. Over and over in her head she told herself it was the right thing to do, but she could not help her hesitancy. It seemed the sheer weight of her feeling of guilt glued her soles to the ground; her feet did not yield easily to her request for movement. An eternity likely could have passed before she had reached the floor of her office. If she were to be caught…

_You cannot worry about that, Hermione. This is for Severus – he has trusted you, and you need to prove you are worthy of such trust. _

When she finally returned to her office, Hermione closed the door behind her, locking it with an imperturbable security charm. She never understood the purpose of standard locks when a simple swish of a wand could align the wards; sometimes, the wizarding world was senseless. Hermione, for one, never utilized standard locks for security – not when first year students were taught the Unlocking Charm.

Lowering into her chair, she stared at the plain cover of the patient file, the multicolored tags decorating the edge to assist with rapid filing. Her hands were trembling, the gentle shiver rustling the papers within the folder.

_Severus Snape, you had better be damn well worth the risk I'm taking._

"_Incendio_," Hermione whispered, her wand leveled at the hearth.

In a quiet crackle, the grate came to life with a small flame. Hermione's amber eyes danced between the file in her hands and the yellow flames, her heart pounding within her chest until it was all she could hear. The blaze grew until it licked at the brick surrounding it, the warmth glowing like a halo.

With a deep, steadying breath, Hermione flicked her wrist towards the fire; the folder abandoned her hands, drifting into the flames and finally settling against the grate. Its corners charred black nearly immediately, curling into themselves before disintegrating into ash. As the file burned, Hermione's heart seemed to show no intention on slowing; the pressure behind her breastbone was pressing downwards against her stomach, stirring a sense of nausea.

In a few minutes, the file had all but turned to ash. The last article to burn was the photograph itself, an ominous set of fathomless ebony eyes glaring at her through the flames as the film melted from the borders inward. Soon, it, too, vanished into charcoal-colored dust, and Hermione released a long, relieved sigh.

* * *

><p>When Hermione arrived home that evening following a long, slow walk through the thick night air, Crookshanks was immediately circling her feet, mewling his affection. He pushed his head into her calf, the loud growl of contented purring vibrating against her flesh. The happy greeting brought a smile to her face and she kneeled down to the friendly feline.<p>

"Good evening to you, too, Crookshanks," Hermione crooned, her fingertips scratching along his throat. "I've missed you too."

Great golden eyes peered up at her expectantly, and as Hermione turned her attention to his plate in the kitchen, she released a soft laugh. "Oh, I see. You're only happy to see me because you know I'll feed you."

Crookshanks leapt from his place at her feet and padded gracefully to the kitchen, where Hermione followed suit. After she poured him some food and a tiny cup of milk, she moved into her bedroom. Every day that passed, the scent of Ron seemed to dissipate; Hermione had taken to leaving her windows open to hurry the process along. The ache that lingered in her chest seemed to press deeper whenever she returned home, but it seemed as though tonight, it was somehow dulled.

At least until she pushed open the door to find Ron reclining on her bed, his hands folded behind his head and his eyes closed peacefully. Hermione nearly flinched at his presence there; the first thought that flickered through her mind was how she had gone to such lengths to eradicate any evidence he had ever lived there in the first place. With a sigh, she took another soft step into the room, her arms folding across her chest.

"Ron? What are you doing here?"

Her voice startled him from his doze; with a jerk, he sprung to his feet. Smoothing his hands over his face, wiping the sleep away, he turned his glossy eyes on Hermione. As she watched him, there was an air of uncertainty, as though he wasn't sure what he should do. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he began to rock on the balls of his feet.

"I came to get my stuff… but I wanted to talk to you, first." His voice was obviously pained, cracking on random syllables.

"Ron…" Hermione sighed, backing away from him as he began advancing toward her.

"Hermione, just listen. Please." Ron's hands reached for her as he pleaded, seeking the warmth of her body; as Hermione shot a warning glance to his wandering hands, they seemed to freeze in the air.

Ron took a step back, his hands buried deep into his pockets once more. Allowing her eyes to flicker closed for just a moment, Hermione breathed in deeply through her nostrils to steady her nerves. The moment's end fast approached, and as she opened her amber eyes, she nodded slowly.

"Let me fix some tea," Hermione bargained, thinking for certain chamomile was in order if her frayed nerves had any decision in tea selection.

Leading Ron into the small kitchen, Hermione immediately busied her hands by gathering the teacups and the kettle. From behind her, she heard the screech of the chair feet against the old tile floor as Ron pulled the chair back to take a seat. Risking a glance over her shoulder, she noticed he took the seat he had normally preoccupied for their meals; his ears were flaming red, his eyes downcast at the smooth surface of the dining table. His elbows rested against the cool wood, his hands twisting his wand nervously.

Hermione returned her attention to the kettle, setting it over the burning coil on the stove. Despite the fact magic could have been used, Hermione preferred the "Muggle" way to brew tea – and various other tasks, as well. Making coffee, cleaning dishes, laundering clothes; there was a certain quaintness and a comfortable familiarity with doing some things by hand (or at least the way she had been raised).

With a gruff cough, Ron cleared his throat. "That patient, the one you worked the weekend for… how is he doing?" His voice was cautious and it was obvious he was only trying to ease the tension that weighed down on their shoulders.

"He's improving," Hermione replied simply, casting a glance over her shoulder.

"That's good."

With a thoughtful hum, Hermione nodded her agreement and returned to the stove where she was finally able to busy her hands as the water boiled. Reaching for the teapot, she opened the kitchen faucet and let the water run until clouds of steam were lifting to the ceiling – she preferred warming her teapot so her tea wouldn't cool as quickly.

She could feel Ron's eyes on her back as she worked quietly, scooping tea into the teapot. His watchful gaze pinked her cheeks, but still she worked, pouring the boiling water into the pot and waiting quietly for the tea to steep. She turned her back to the counter, curling her fingers around the edge and staring at Ron. Casting a quick glance to the clock mounted on the wall behind him, Hermione sighed softly; it was going to be a very long night.

"So… is he still there?" Ron asked awkwardly.

Turning her attention back to Ron, Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion at his question before she realized he was still referring to Severus. "Oh – yes, of course. I said he was _improving_, I didn't say—"

"Right, right."

The uncomfortable silence settled in on them again and Hermione turned with a relieved sigh, appreciative of being able to busy her hands once more. Pouring the tea through her infuser, Hermione watched the pale amber liquid swim in the basin of the teacup, tiny grains of tea slipping through the filter. Handing Ron one of the cups, she curled her hands around the warm ceramic of her own and lowered into the chair across from him.

"Hermione, I… I miss you," Ron began, staring at the reflective surface of his tea. "I just… I want to make sure this is what you really want. I want you to be happy, but I… I hate being without you."

Hermione's chest rose in a heavy sigh. "Ron…"

"I know I've been difficult. It isn't fair to you." Finally, he raised his eyes to meet hers. "I just – with Fred gone…"

"Ron, it's been _six_ years," Hermione interrupted, coldly. She set the teacup on the table gently. "Six years, I've been waiting for you to recover from your grief and be the man I fell in love with. _Six _years, Ronald! I'm not going to wait for you any longer. I can't wait for you."

"'Mione—Hermione, I know. It's just… I don't know what to do!" With his exasperation, Ron threw his hands in the air.

"I've told you; find a psychologist and talk to them. They can help you, you know! I don't understand your aversion to talking with someone—" Hermione slammed her fist onto the table in frustration, the cup rattling against the solid table surface. "But I can't wait for you anymore, Ronald. _I_ need to be happy."

"Promise me, Hermione. Promise me something, will you?" He didn't give her the opportunity to respond. "If—when I get better… give me another chance."

Hermione hugged her arms to her chest, leaning back against the chair. With her fierce eyes piercing Ron's, she considered him for only a moment before deciding her answer.

"No."

Ron nearly leapt to his feet, coming around the table and dropping painfully to his knees before Hermione. He grasped tightly at her hands, lacing his fingers between hers and holding her tightly. Glossy, reddened eyes stared up at her and his grip on her hands began to tighten as his hands started to tremble.

"Please, Hermione."

"Ronald, stop this nonsense," Hermione tried to shake her hands free of his grip, but he was unmoving. "I need to do what will make _me_ happiest, Ronald. I can't live my life for anyone else – I can't wait for you anymore."

Leaning forward, Ron captured Hermione's lips in his, his flaming cheeks wet with tears. Hermione froze for a moment, her eyes widened as she stared into the closed eyes of Ron; she had to consciously resist the urge to return his kiss. Old habits die hard – his kiss was as passionate as they used to be, and her heart fluttered under his touch. She missed the man he used to be, and his contact then held some memory of the man she had loved so dearly.

Her logical mind pressed forward and she pulled away. "Ronald Bilius Weasley, I said _stop_! I cannot wait for you any longer. It is over between us and I'm sorry if you can't accept that. If you can't accept it, then I have to ask you to leave."

Ron fell back on his heels, staring in disbelief at the woman he loved. She had risen from her chair, taking a step back away from him and her wand already held before her. With a small shake of his head, he lowered his gaze to his knees. In an ungraceful movement, he lowered himself from his heels to his arse, his legs bent upwards and his arms resting against his knees. Tears ran silent tracks down his erubescent cheeks, his hands trembling violently as he sat a crumpled heap on the floor.

"Please. Collect your things and leave. I need to get to sleep." Despite her icy voice, her heart seemed to crush against itself within her chest. She hoped her voice did not tremble as she spoke, but the rising tension in her throat was painful as she forced steady sentences.

"Right," Ron sighed, finally climbing to his feet. "I won't take long."

* * *

><p><em>The sun was beating down on their faces; Severus could feel a tiny bead of sweat roll down the back of his neck, and despite the cooler breeze that brushed against his face, he was still damp in the summer heat. Dried blood stained his right knee and there was dirt beneath his fingertips, the pleasant, joyous laugh of a young girl ringing through the thick, humid air. <em>

"_Sev – Sev, let's jump!" _

_Severus curled his legs beneath him, the force of gravity and his own weight forcing him backwards along the swing. As Lily passed him, moving quickly in the opposite direction, the burst of air that cooled his skin smelled sweet like a child's sweat. Her braids trailed behind her, her cheeks smudged with dirt from a long day spent at the playground. There was a look of determination on her face, her brow furrowed beneath the fringe of her thick red hair._

"_You better be careful, Lily!" Severus warned, a small laugh joining her delighted giggle as she soared past him. "I can't mend bones yet!"_

_Lily's fingers began loosening around the chains, her legs outstretched as she began to pull herself from the seat of the swing. A moment later, she was soaring through the air, her arms outstretched as though she was trying to take flight. As he swung back and forth, he watched her; when she landed, she rolled across the ground dramatically, leaping to her feet with her fists pressed triumphantly against her hips._

"_Beat that, Sev!" _

_With a small smile – and a carefully planned release – Severus' fingers abandoned the chain. His bottom slid gracefully from the seat of the swing, his feet only a few feet from the ground as he sailed through the air. He could hear Lily laughing – she seemed to always be laughing – and when finally his feet touched the earth, she cried out in victory. Dropping to his knees, burying his fingers into the sand, Severus tipped his head back to look at her. _

"_Looks like you win again, Lily," he conceded with a hidden smile._

Dragging his hand over his face, Severus groaned. The red haze of his eyelids was an unwelcome alarm; as he drew closer to consciousness, the sound of cars traveling the streets invaded his senses. A quiet laugh sounded near him, and as Severus opened his eyes, his gaze settled on Hermione.

"It's about time you're awake," she said with a smirk, a sidelong glance casted towards him as she mixed his morning potions.

"What time is it?" Severus growled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"About nine-thirty," Hermione replied, handing him the cool goblet.

With an annoyed glare focused on her face, Severus begrudgingly took the goblet from her and tossed his head back. "How long were you waiting there?"

"I had barely just stepped in," Hermione replied, taking the goblet from his hand. "You don't honestly believe I have the time to watch you sleep?"

"As I recall, Ms. Granger, you are quite adept with a Time Turner," Severus replied, crassly.

With a thoughtful smile, Hermione turned from him to set the goblet down on the cabinet. Slowly, the smile began to tug downwards, and she released a sigh.

Severus, ever keen on his Healers fluctuating moods, lifted an eyebrow as he watched her. Against his better interests – it seemed everything he did when in the presence of Hermione violated his personal set of social rules – he queried her. "What troubles you, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione pulled on a pair of gloves, curling her fingers as she loosened the pressure around her knuckles. Moving towards her patient, she simply stared at him for a moment, her amber eyes roaming his features. Raising her right arm, she began rolling the limb at its socket, guiding Severus in a similar movement.

Her voice was soft as she spoke, as though the topic was a delicate one. "Ron visited last night."

"I see," Severus growled, flexing his arm and lengthening the ropy muscles that tied themselves to his bones.

"I had just returned home after… taking care of your file," she sighed. "Ron was waiting in my bedroom. He wanted to talk."

"And this came as a surprise to you, Ms. Granger? Honestly, I thought you were cleverer than that." Flexing his fingers, the satisfying _pop!_ of his knuckles seemed to emphasize his point.

Hermione shook her head. "It didn't… but the timing… the timing was not the best for me."

"Rarely does life cooperate with our personal schedules, Ms. Granger. You should not be so naïve." Severus growled.

When they had finished with his arms, Hermione guided him in similar movements of his lower limbs, long legs bending at every joint and lengthening the sinewy muscles lurking beneath the skin. Quiet groans came from his throat as the stretched muscle relieved an entire night's tension, the pleasure comparable to anything he himself could elicit.

When both of his legs were resting comfortably beneath the blankets once more, Severus curled his toes. Inexplicably, a strange surge of jealousy tied itself around his gut at the thought of Weasley. Despite his better instincts – which warned him to stay away from inserting himself into the personal lives of others – he heard himself ask, "May I ask what was discussed?"

"Nothing that would surprise you," Hermione replied with a gentle shrug, coming to the foot of his bed. "He… wanted to make sure this is what I wanted. He told me he only wanted me to be happy."

With gloved hands, she pressed her fingers into the weary muscles of his feet, rubbing small circles around the fleshy pads. At first, Severus' foot jerked from her – and he noticed her lips part in a pretty smile as she realized he was ticklish – but as she increased her force, he released a quiet, pleasured groan.

"I am also aware that confrontations such as these end in one of two ways," he managed between pleased sighs.

As Hermione turned her attention to his other foot, she shook her head. "You are partially right. He kissed me – and, you know, it was rather odd, because he… he was passionate. Like he used to be." Her cheeks were stained red as she spoke of their intimacy, and for a brief moment Severus savored her embarrassment. In the next second he was simply cherishing her confidence in him; she trusted him and it was a sadly foreign feeling for him.

She added, "I didn't allow it to go any further. I couldn't. It would only… it would only lead to more pain."

"That is very considerate of you, Ms. Granger. Oh!" Hermione had discovered a particularly sensitive knot of fatigued muscle in his foot, and as her thumb worked it loose, Severus exclaimed in pleasure.

Hermione's lips parted in a satisfied smile and she finally pulled her hands away from his feet. Rounding to the head of his bed once more, she loosened the ties around his throat, revealing the pale skin of his chest. He, once the pleasure of her touch faded, returned his thoughts to their conversation; the swell of his chest when he heard she rejected Weasley's advances did not go ignored.

Hermione's tender touch smoothed over the surface of his flesh, her fingers gingerly manipulating the slow-healing wounds – examining the edges and ensuring the stitches remained in place. "He asked me to promise him something." Her voice was soft, nearly a whisper, her eyes never meeting his gaze as they scanned his pale flesh and weakly glowing wounds.

Severus, whose attention had been focused on her touch (of course, preparing himself for the sudden ache she would cause as she fingered his injuries), directed his gaze to her face. Her cheeks were pinked just slightly, and he knew she was not entirely certain if she should be confiding in him such private details.

And yet, she continued. "He asked that I give him another chance—_when_ he gets better."

Severus' breathing halted at her words and he did not resist when she moved to fasten his gown around his neck once more. If she thought his behavior at all strange, she made no indication. In fact, as Severus stared at her face, the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears, she seemed only melancholy, a sadness in her eyes that seemed unfathomable. Her hands were still smoothing over the fabric of his gown, flattening out the creases that had folded themselves into the weave.

"I do not suppose you are one to put your life on pause for such foolish pursuits, Ms. Granger," Severus finally managed, once his lungs decided to inhale once more. "If you are, then… a _pity_, indeed."

Hermione's gaze turned to him, the melancholy all but replaced by a growing warmth. "Of course not. I told him I could not wait for him any longer. It was time _I _lived my life for _me_."

"Apparently, you are as receptive as always, Ms. Granger," Severus growled, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. A certain joy began to expand within his chest, but he, of course, would never let it show.

"I would hate to disappoint you, _Professor_," Hermione crooned gently, a smile parting her lips prettily. He noticed the subtlest of bounces as she stood before him, and he thought for certain she would burst from whatever it was she was trying to contain. "And I have good news."

"Yes?"

"I think you're ready to start walking."

Severus' forehead creased as he bristled at the news, his eyebrows rising and his shoulders broadening. Hermione couldn't contain her smile anymore; she knew he had been eager for this moment since the day he was admitted, and to be able to assist him in such an amazing step – she was almost as elated as he.

"Would you like to try?" she asked, backing away from the bed just far enough to allow him room to swing his legs over the edge. With her wand raised, the bed lowered closer to the floor.

"Yes."

With her dominant hand supporting his shoulder, Hermione assisted Severus to an independently seated position, without the support of the pillows along his back to lean against. As he sat in front of her, she slid her fingers beneath his robe, searching for the wounds that had been of concern to this very moment. His dark gaze focused on her face, but she was not looking at him. Her eyes were fixated on something beyond his shoulder, though he suspected she wasn't actually looking at anything at all; rather just staring, her entire attention focused on her sense of touch as she tactilely examined his healing wounds. Her scent perfumed the air between them, a pleasant combination of floral shampoo and a scent he knew was simply _her_, and as he drank it in, he couldn't help the natural response of his body. He did not swell at the scent, but there existed a dull throb within him; an aching that he knew was not purely lustful.

When she finally finished frantically fingering his wounds, her eyes seemed to glow with life again. Flickering her gaze to his face, she seemed to suddenly realize the proximity of their bodies – Severus could count the individual freckles that danced along the bridge of her nose, and he noticed the flecks of emerald in the irises of her eyes – and a faint flush rose in her cheeks as she offered him a kind smile before backing away.

"I just wanted to ensure the wounds were not pulling at the stitches. You're fine," she offered, an awkward intonation in her voice that Severus could not identify. "How do you feel?"

"Fine," Severus growled.

Despite his declaration, she seemed intent on keeping him perched there for several moments longer. With her hands on either shoulder, her amber eyes searched his face as though she were prepared for the moment he would lose consciousness. Her wild mane of hair was tied back at the nape of her neck, but as his gaze oscillated over her features, stray tendrils began escaping their confines and dangling prettily around her face. The flush that had colored her face previously had all but faded now; Severus wished he could say the same, but his body still yearned to feel the female before him.

As the silent moment ended, Hermione took a small step backwards, releasing her firm grip on his shoulders. He rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension that was tightening within them. The furrowing of her brow and the gravity of the situation came settling in on him, and finally, the ache that swelled within him subsided.

"If you feel at all light-headed or otherwise unwell, _tell me_," Hermione said firmly, the emphasis she placed on the final two words ringing in his ears.

He eased closer to the edge of the bed, the cool tile floor chilling the warm pads of his feet. He wiggled his toes against the smooth surface. Hermione had moved back away from him to give him room, but as soon as he leaned forward to gain the momentum to stand, she closed in on him, lacing her arm behind his back and resting the other on his waist.

Together, they hoisted him to his feet. In his height, Hermione's support nearly faded from him; he was at _least_ a foot taller than she was, and her arm, which had lifted from his underarms, now lay across the middle of his back rather uselessly. Her eyes were still fixated on his face and she seemed not to care about the disparity in their heights or the seeming futility of her arm draped across his back; her only concern was his reaction to the sudden change in position, but given her calm expression, he seemed to be handling it well.

Together, they took a single step forward. Severus' gait was very unsteady and he was suddenly very appreciative of the small woman at his side. With her left hand pressed against his waist and her right arm tied around his back, she was indeed offering him strength in his stance.

Another step.

And then another.

Together, they finally arrived at the foot of the bed. Severus was filled with a combination of emotions, but the dominating feeling that burned through him in that moment was frustration. He was not a meek man who needed a cane to support him as he swept through a corridor; his mere gait was intimidating, and those with any sense cowered before him.

But in that moment, he was an incredibly frail man with pallid, waifish legs protruding from a thin patient's robe that only hung to his knees. Hermione was thoughtful enough to ensure his rear was concealed as they walked, her hand dragging the gown over to cover him. He was weak, meek; a woman twenty years his junior having to support him as he _practiced_ walking.

"How are you doing, Sev?" Hermione asked softly from below his arm.

"Fine." His response was a snarl, and the moment it escaped him he regretted the tone. Hermione did not seem swayed by it, however, as though she understood his anger.

"Would you like to try on your own?" There was an uncertainty in her voice as though she was unsure it was the wisest decision to make; but regardless, she was going to give him the option.

"Yes."

Nodding, Hermione carefully removed herself from his side, her diligent gaze fixed on his face. Severus held himself up for a moment by the bed, his legs – weakened in their lack of use, but still strong enough to support his weight – shaking just slightly as they were suddenly responsible for the entirety of his mass.

It was obviously requiring a great amount of restraint on Hermione's behalf to allow him this small token of independence. She was barely separate from him, her hands ready to catch him if he became unsteady; all the while never actually assisting him, and allowing him the opportunity to walk on his own.

Taking a step forward, Severus moved away from the bed. Hermione moved in front of him, her steps moving her backward the door, her hands poised to break his fall if he happened to lose his gait. Another trembling, unsteady step forward; Hermione took a firm, steady step back. As though they were dancing, their movements were timed and synchronous, and Hermione's serious stare and fervent defensive stance reminded Severus that this was, indeed, a serious task.

In attempts to ease the weight of the room – or simply distract them both from his pathetic weakness – Severus cleared his throat. "I believe, with time, you will find that you are better off without him."

Hermione released a soft laugh, her eyebrows raised in an incredulous expression. "There you are again with your apparent omniscience." They were closing in on the door when Hermione began to lead him back toward the bed gradually.

"Girl—you are not so—foolish as to be—unable to see precisely—the result of your decision…" Walking – and talking – required so much of his energy, much more than he thought reasonable, and his chest began to heave with gasps for air.

A wrinkle pressed itself into Hermione's forehead as she registered his exhaustion, and she extended a hand to his shoulder. "Severus, you ought to know better than most when to _hold your tongue_," she growled, and despite the severity of the situation, her bold audacity to mock him was not lost on him – though for the moment, while he gasped for shallow breaths of air, he would allow it to pass without consequence.

"And—ugh—" What happened next seemed to move under the influence of a slowing charm. His gait was already shaky at best, and his foot seemed to catch on nothing, turning him off his balance. He began to fall forward, a quiet grunt escaping him as he tripped; Hermione's voice cried out in surprise and he felt her body press into his, her arms wrap around his waist, trying to stop his fall. She had underestimated his weight, he expected, as she began to crumble beneath him.

He expected the impact to be painful, and guilt flashed through his mind as he realized Hermione would be crushed beneath him. She shrieked something – a spell he should have known, but the incantation was slurred in his mind – and as they finally hit the ground, he felt Hermione sink into it below him as though they were on a bed of feathers. He passed through it too as though he were weightless, a jerky movement, not unlike a mattress or trampoline, recoiling him back to where the surface of the ground should have been.

A small sound escaped the woman beneath him as she breathed a relieved sigh. Severus' face was buried in her hair, the knot at the nape having come completely loose in the struggle, forming a nest of floral fragrance and soft curls at the crook of her neck and cascading over her shoulders. The rough growth along his chin brushed against the smooth flesh of her throat. Her arms were still around his waist, and as he began to shift above her, he registered the feeling of her thighs flanking his hips.

Weakly, he lifted himself onto his elbows, and as his gaze met hers, he realized she was directly below him, her face so close he could feel her ragged breaths on his skin. She moved her legs just slightly, and through his thin patient gown – and her thicker, but not very, Healer's robe – he could feel the heat emanating from her body. The familiar ache began throbbing below his navel; her ragged breaths became raspy, her face flushing as she looked at him. Her hands smoothed from the middle of his back to his hips, her thumbs hooking around the bony prominence of his iliac crests.

For a moment, they lay there on the ground, their frantic, raspy breaths escaping their parted lips and brushing against their partner's face. Her amber eyes were wide with surprise, but there was something within them that burned bright like flame. Severus' body pleaded to close the small gap that separated them, to press his lips to hers and ravenously invade her mouth – he could feel the racing heart in the body below him, pounding against the thin wall of her chest as though it sought to escape. Its pace nearly challenged his own, but he doubted anything could beat as fast as his heart was in that moment.

A rush of impulse flooded his vision and he couldn't seem to control the movement of his face toward hers. Quickly, the space between them was closed and he felt his lips brush hers, the taste of her lips salty in a luxurious, tantalizing way. He could have sworn he felt her lips suck his in, but within a moment, her hands began pressing against him, her body writhing away, a quiet sound – he couldn't decipher its meaning – escaping her. He felt her push him back, the loathsome feeling of rejection sinking into his chest. As his eyes held her gaze, the fire burning there remained, but it was dying.

"Are you… are you hurt?" she asked, her voice breathy and tainted. Had she been any other woman, he'd have thought the low growl that accompanied her words was lustful – but her recent rejection shook the thought from his mind.

"No."

He was hesitant to move from his place above her; there was heat radiating off her body, more concentrated where he rested between her legs, and the hardened length that made itself known to her through its quivering pressure there was only encouraged by what he knew to exist beneath the awful lime-green robes. She sensed it – he knew she had to – and her erubescent face only flushed more as it throbbed against her.

"Are you able to sit up? I can help you into your bed, of course, but…"

With a low groan, Severus managed to lift himself high enough that Hermione could slide out from beneath him. As soon as she was on her feet, she lowered to her knees to assist Severus to stand as well. He was surprised he wasn't sorer; there was only a dull ache in his joints – and the desperate throb below his navel that he wished would dissipate. His concern was not that Hermione would bear witness to it – she would have been incredibly naïve and rather imperceptive if she hadn't noticed it earlier – but the fact that his body was reacting to her at all.

Anchoring herself to his side once more, her arm draped across his back, she guided him to the bed. Severus wasn't sure her face could glow any redder than it was as she perched beside him, her eyes busily staring at anything but the awkward tent of his gown. Even Severus was overcome with a familiar sense of shame and despite knowing that he was simply responding to the presence of a female – he _certainly_ wasn't responding to Hermione, specifically; no, _that_ was _impossible_ – it was still an embarrassing situation for either to endure. He was her former professor, for Merlin's sake.

_But she kissed you back, Severus. _

When they reached the bed, he lowered himself onto it gently, Hermione's hands grasping his shoulders and holding him steady. There were tiny beads of sweat across her forehead, her cheeks still stained as she stood over him; the smell of her sweat was not unpleasant, Severus noticed. She was not far from him, though to gesture towards her, to taste again the lips his body so craved – it would be a noticed motion, and surely she would recoil. The sting of rejection was still fresh and his logic, restraint, and abstinence an overpowering force to reckon with.

"Are you certain you're not hurt, Sev?" Hermione asked, the flush of her cheeks finally fading. She dared a glance to his lap and did not conceal well the look of relief that flashed across her features.

"Yes," he growled.

Hermione helped lift his legs into the bed as Severus leaned back into the pillows. She drew the covers over his legs, and as though she regained the mentality of a Healer, her hands began fussing over him, examining the wounds that remained and checking his vitals. When all seemed well, she excused herself, abandoning Severus to the lonesome silence of his isolation room.

* * *

><p>As Hermione quietly pulled the door closed behind her, she found the support it offered calming. Leaning her weight against the cool surface, spreading her fingers over its smoothness, she breathed a heavy sigh, willing her heart to finally slow its beating.<p>

Her mind was whirling; no tangible thought existed at that moment, and she hated to admit just how much it required to utter a single intelligible word – let alone form full sentences! Tipping her head forward, she stared at the toes of her shoes.

The way her body responded to him was unacceptable and completely inappropriate. Shifting her legs, she could feel the dampness of her knickers, and she shook her head in disdain. She swore she felt him swell when he was above her and with her legs surrounding him – the thin fabric of their robes left little to the imagination – she was able to feel the hard length of him, pressed against _her_.

Swallowing hard, Hermione allowed her eyes to flicker closed. She brought her fingers to her lips; she could still remember the feeling, however fleeting, of his lips brushing hers. She wanted nothing more in that moment than to devour him in a single movement, his lips parting for her and her tongue caressing his. She could smell his breath, and it wasn't unpleasant; the smell inspired a rush inside her, the strongest urge to taste him, to explore his mouth with her tongue and tear open his gown and…

It took every ounce of restraint she contained to keep from rocking her hips into him, the feeling of his solid length pressed into her core. Her primal desires – those that had been so neglected in recent months – began taking over and she wanted, so badly, to feel him inside of her. The pure strength of his body, and despite how frail he still was – even as he was healing and recovering his vitality – she knew his body was capable of such vigor, such stamina. He felt powerful above her, and for the briefest of moments, she wanted to succumb to him.

But he was her _patient_. Ethical guidelines were developed specifically to prohibit such behaviors; it was only a matter of time before a relationship between a Healer and her patient would end in catastrophe. Conflicted interests aside, to fall for a patient would lead to the neglect of others and absurd treatments and risks taken despite the repercussions – she had already violated a plethora of restrictions simply because he _was_ Severus Snape.

Severus Snape. As though she had completely forgotten who the patient in the room behind her was, the name rang through her mind like a siren. Severus Snape. Her body was reacting to Severus Snape, the former Potions professor at Hogwarts. Severus Snape, the man who had devoted his entire life to protecting the legacy of a woman he had loved for nearly all of his life. Severus Snape, a man who was a former Death Eater, and though he renounced his ways for the greater good – and Hermione knew everyone made mistakes, and she did not believe they should have to pay for them for their entire lives – who knew what atrocities he committed the brief time he was Voldemort's loyal servant? What of the time he spent as a double agent; what sort of crimes was he forced to participate in to maintain his cover? Who knew what barbarity he was capable of?

Her body continued responding to the thought of the man behind the door; her core ached to contain him. Even as she tried to even her breathing and utilize logic and reason to combat the overwhelming desire to pounce on the man – the betrayal between her legs only grew warmer and wetter as her thoughts persisted. It did not matter in what context she thought of him – as her patient, as her professor, as a Death Eater – her lust for him only intensified.

* * *

><p>Severus stared woefully at the wall. The sense of rejection had not left him; the crushing feeling around his heart when Hermione had pushed against him still seemed to compress the walls of his chest until he could hear the rhythm of his own pulse in his ears. Never mind the humiliation of tripping over nothing to fall on top of her in the first place – as though Fate had not enjoyed herself enough in recent days.<p>

And yet, the fleeting feeling of her lips brushing his… Severus fisted a handful of fabric, his grip tightening until the flesh of his knuckles were as white as the bone beneath. A moment of weakness had caused him to disregard rationality. What would he say to her when she returned? What would _she_ say? Perhaps she didn't even notice, and she never actually _pushed_ him away, she was simply trying to slide out from beneath him to assist him to his own feet, and she did return his kiss after all—

_Listen to yourself, you fool. She has no interest in a cynical, sarcastic, withered, old man like you._

His hands came to his face, rough palms smoothing over the deep crevices of his forehead as he breathed a frustrated sigh. His fingers slid over the sharp corners of his cheekbones and finally came to rest against his lips; he could still feel her warm mouth pressed against his, the gentle pressure he knew existed solely because for a fleeting moment, _she_ wished to succumb to _her_ own urges.

His callused finger traced the roughness of his chapped lip for a moment longer; the scent of her breath still haunted his sense of smell. Briefly, his mind betrayed him and his thoughts lingered on the possibility of the taste of her mouth – did her tongue taste the same as her lips? His own tongue darted out against his lip, drawing in the imaginary remnant of her taste. Finally, his hands returned to their limp position in his bed. Staring loathingly at the stark white sheet, he released a heavy sigh.

_You are growing attached to her, Severus._

Against his better interest – against _her _better interests. It was not a question; it was only common sense. Should she ever become a weakness for him, she would become a target for his enemies. Severus' brow wrinkled as he scowled. To be in love was not worth the risk; happiness was not worth the cost of pain and misery that surely would follow.

_You imbecile. You speak of love and happiness as though it is a possibility for you._

Pensively, he chewed his lip – and immediately caught himself mimicking the habit he found so endearing in her. He had only been in her presence for a short time and yet he adopted a habit of hers.

_How endearing._

It was only one more piece of evidence that it was imperative to separate himself from her as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He was well enough to walk, after all – he could demand to be discharged. Lifting his gaze to the window, he watched the shapeless clouds lazily drift through the pale blue sky.

_This will only end in death, you fool. If not your own, hers._ And for some reason which he could not decipher, the thought of Hermione coming into harm's way inspired a certain nausea within him.


	9. Chapter 9

Rating: M – inappropriate for readers under the age of 16; contains scenes of explicit sexuality and violence.  
>Disclaimer: Characters and settings ©J.K. Rowling.<p>

Author's note: So, yeah. I apologize for how absurdly long it has taken me to update this. Real life interferes where she should leave well enough alone. Enjoy.

**Potions, Plans, and Second Chances**

K. Marie

**Chapter 9**

Much of Hermione's morning was spent in the confines of her office, hidden behind her desk with the protection of a stack of patient files. She, of course, did not neglect a single one of her duties – but she did not spend nearly as much time with her patients as she had made a habit in the past.

No, that morning, she spent as little time with her patients as she could guiltlessly manage. Rationally, she told herself, it would not have been professional (nor fair) to her patients if she were not investing her time and complete attention to their needs – and if she was to be honest, there was no possibility of such dedication in that moment. Nearly every second that ticked away, she was elsewhere in her muddled brain, her movements guided entirely by instinct or intuition, meaningless words to reciprocate meaningless conversation as she worked over her patients.

Her mind, of course, was focused entirely on Severus. Even though it was nearing one o'clock, and she had, indeed, failed to take her lunch and also neglected her duties to Severus for the time being, she could _still_ taste him on her lips. The salty, bitter taste of his lips that was hardly unpleasant – quickly, almost secretly, Hermione darted her tongue out against her lips to draw the flavor into her mouth once more. Rationally, she realized the lingering taste was completely psychological, but in all honesty, she was hardly being rational.

With a glance to the clock, Hermione released a soft, anxious sigh. She knew she could not avoid Severus any longer; beyond common decency, to continue delaying her duties was unprofessional. Smoothing her hand across her forehead, she allowed her eyes to close for a moment as she gathered her composure. Her heart raced beneath her breast, her pulse palpable against her tense temples.

"You are being entirely foolish," she whispered to herself as she dragged her fingers through the mass of curls secured at the base of her head. "It was nothing." Even so, her tongue flicked out between her lips again, drawing in the salty flavor of his mouth.

Rising from her desk, Hermione rolled her shoulders, the satisfying _pop!_ relieving the tightness that continued to knot itself within her musculature. Her cool palm found the warmth of the nape of her neck, and as she shifted her posture to send a gratifying growl through her aching spine, she breathed steadily.

It was not lost on her that she was investing such great effort into simply gathering the strength to interact with the "John Smith" above her. With a falsely confident nod, she pushed open the door to enter the hallway and hurried in the direction of his room.

A quiet beat sounded from Severus' door and he breathed in a steadying sigh. As had become customary, Hermione only waited a moment before slipping into the room quietly, the creaky hinges whining softly as the movement of the door disturbed their peace.

"Sev?" her pleasant voice touched his heart in such a way the organ betrayed him by fluttering. "It's time for your—"

"Ah, yes, the daily routine. Will there ever come a time when I do not need your assistance for this monotony?" he growled, his voice astringent, his eyes darting from the newspaper in his lap to her face.

It required more of his concentration than he preferred to admit to keep from ogling the body that laid below him only a couple hours previous. He did not overlook the pink flush of her cheeks that settled in the moment his eyes caught hers. She stood in his gaze, as though trapped there by some invisible force – the proverbial deer in the headlights, if he recalled the phrase correctly – and it took her a moment to collect her faculties.

"It won't be long now," Hermione finally managed, her voice weak. "I imagine I could teach you how to brew these now and you would manage quite well."

As she crossed to the cabinet, her cheeks did not pale under his watchful gaze. If she were unaware of his plan, she certainly seemed to encourage it in her naïveté. Her hands began rummaging carefully through the drawer, drawing out the appropriate vials and mixing them within the goblet. A moment later she was at his bedside, her fingertips brushing against his as they exchanged the cup.

"Are you experiencing any unusual pain?" she asked quietly once she removed the goblet from his grasp and returned it to the cabinet.

"No," he growled.

"For some reason, I doubt you would admit to it if you were."

Gesturing to his robe, Hermione waited patiently for him to unfasten the ribbon. With the robe folded over his lap, Hermione drew a pair of gloves over her fingers and examined closely the stitched wounds. Severus watched her – and admittedly, she was working faster than what seemed characteristic of her – and still, the blush did not fade from her cheeks.

"Everything seems well," she said softly, gesturing for Severus to fasten the ribbon about his neck once more. "Which is rather remarkable, considering your fall—"

"I would like to be discharged," Severus interjected calmly, his eyes focused on the newspaper he had drawn once more into his hands.

The flush of Hermione's cheeks – and any other color of her face – drained immediately and she stared at him with wide eyes. "Are you _mental_?"

"I am well enough to walk. The fall did not disrupt any of my sutures. And you said so yourself, I am capable of brewing these potions on my own," Severus' voice was firm and cold as he spoke, his gaze still averted from her face. "There is no reason for me to remain here any longer."

Hermione's surprised expression quickly morphed into one of annoyance. Crossing her arms over her chest, she stood before him with a furrowed brow. "I won't allow it," she growled. "You are not well enough to be on your own. You are a fool, Severus Snape, if you believe otherwise."

Though her defiance did not surprise him, he could not say it was expected. There were many attributes of her personality that lingered still from her childhood, and her belligerence seemed to be one of them.

"Last I was aware, I could not be held here against my will."

Throwing her hands into the air, Hermione sighed in exasperation. The tips of her hair crackled in her frustration, the only piece of physical evidence indicating the strength of her magic and its potential volatility. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but quickly, he masked it with a sneer.

"I haven't even figured out what poison they used! There could still be poison in your blood! What if you exert yourself, and it—You are bloody mad, Severus!" Hermione exclaimed.

Severus turned his gaze to her finally, his shoulders rolling in an indifferent shrug. "This is our best option, Ms. Granger. You can return to your life and you no longer need to worry about the security of my identity."

"So instead of destroying a patient file with purpose, I did so without any. How is that at all advantageous?" Hermione demanded, resting her fists against her hips as her amber eyes burned in her vexation.

"You can simply replace the file with your copy," Severus replied. "It is not as though my file is a popular one to peruse. No one would be any the wiser."

Hermione spun on her heel, pacing away from him with her fingers curling into tight fists. Her ponytail sparked with electricity as she stormed between the bed and the curtain; the intensity with which she paced seemed certain to burn a hole into the tile floor. In her anger, her footsteps were no longer gentle, and instead the click of her heels echoed off the walls violently.

"I will absolutely not discharge you," Hermione averred, turning toward him suddenly. "You are in no condition to care for yourself right now."

"I do not wish to remain in this hospital any longer," Severus replied coldly.

Suddenly, Severus swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Hermione, as if with instinct, dove toward him, her hands searching for a solid grasp on any part of his body she could manage. She barely reached his shoulders when he shook her off, his hands pushing him from the bed to his feet.

For a brief moment, he swayed; Hermione stood near him, poised and ready to catch him should he fall. There was a glimpse of fear that flashed over his features as he realized – perhaps foolishly – that he was indeed still very weak, but nevertheless, the wizard took a shaky step forward.

"Severus, you are absolutely mad," Hermione shrieked, her voice still shrill with concern. "You are only going to set back your recovery!"

"Nonsense, girl," Severus spat, taking another step forward. "I am proving my point. I am—"

"Completely mental is what you are, Severus Snape," Hermione growled, crossing her arms in front of her. "You will not be able to leave without my consent and I refuse to give it."

Cautious amber eyes watched her patient move very slowly. Her arms were crossed over her chest indignantly but she was ready to react should he have need of her. Another step forward had him ever closer to the door. But in the effort required to rise from the bed and walk on his own, Severus was growing fatigued quickly, his chest expanding with thirsty gasps for air. Hermione rushed forward, her hands quickly securing around his shoulders and holding him upright – though not without a significant amount of effort on her part, as well.

"You are being foolish, Severus. Please, sit down. Sit down and tell me what is going on with you," Hermione pleaded, pulling her wand from her pocket and flicking it towards the chair. Sliding behind Severus, the chair rested against his knees and Hermione helped lower him into it.

"Severus," Hermione began quietly, her eyes glossy in her concern. "If you want to leave the hospital—"

"It would be in both of our best interests if I did not remain here any longer," Severus growled, his hand wiping over his forehead as he gathered air into his lungs.

"Why?"

"It secures my identity," he spat, a grimace curling his lips downwards as a sharp pain stabbed him between his ribs. "It is the wisest option we have."

Lowering to her knees, Hermione looked into his face, her eyes scanning his countenance for any sign of honest emotion. Her tone was exasperated as she spoke, "Severus, I destroyed your old file. That was the only method anyone would have of positively identifying you."

"That is rubbish and if you believe even a single word of it, I have given you far too much credit," Severus snarled, clutching at his side as the stabbing ache tore through his ribcage.

Chewing pensively on her lip, Hermione summoned the bowl that rested on his bedside tabletop. Filling it with water from her wand, she reached for a washcloth and dipped it within the basin, smoothing it gently over Severus' forehead until he recoiled from beneath her touch. With a defeated sigh, she lowered her hands to her lap.

"This isn't about earlier, is it?" she asked, knowing full well she may have surrendered any opportunity to actually discuss his concerns. "Severus, you fell – I only acted through obligation to see to it you are cared for, it's okay—"

"Don't be absurd, girl," Severus hissed.

"If that's the case," Hermione countered, "then you won't decline my offer to care for you in my apartment until you are _actually_ well enough to care for yourself?"

Had she not witnessed it, Hermione would not have thought it possible for Severus to grow paler than he was; at her proposal, the faint color he possessed drained from his features and he simply stared at her, his fathomless eyes widened in surprise. If he had been expecting something from her, she did not deliver upon his expectations.

In fact, Hermione was silently celebrating. She had _actually _managed to catch Severus off his guard. It was a strangely rewarding feeling, indeed.

"Ms. Granger, I believe you are now the one who is _mental_," he growled when he had composed his thoughts. "That is not an option."

"And why isn't it, Severus?" Hermione asked. "You wish to leave the hospital to protect your identity; I don't believe you well enough to be on your own just yet. It is only a Floo's channel away from here; you can use the Galleon I gave you to contact me if you need anything, and I can step right through the hearth in my office to help you."

Grimacing, Severus broke his gaze with Hermione, turning his face toward the window. Hermione braved a moment to comb her fingers through his disheveled hair, and to her relief he did not shy away from her contact. If anything, he leaned _into_ it.

"I don't imagine you have much left to pay for the treatment you've received here," Hermione whispered carefully, searching for his gaze again. As she expected, he met her eyes. "And I would never ask for a single Knut of yours. I simply want to see you well again."

Severus' eyes narrowed with suspicion as he stared into her face, searching for her genuineness. Her fingers were gently combing through the tips of his hair when she grasped onto his hand, squeezing just enough to convey everything she could through the simple touch.

"Please, Severus. I _want _to. This isn't a sympathy tactic. This is not pity. This is nothing more than my duty as a Healer being fulfilled. As soon as you are well, you are free to leave."

Scowling, Severus shook his hand from hers and grasped the arm of the chair tightly. Hermione leaned back on her heels, staring up into his face as she awaited his response. He was no longer looking at her; his gaze had once again wandered to the window.

"I would submit a discharge form that stated 'patient number" – glancing toward the foot of the bed, she reached for the folder that rested there and flicked it open – "zero two three dash ten, 'John Smith,' requested discharge against medical advice.' In a few minutes I could update the notes on your file and apply the admission photograph. No one would be any the wiser."

She caught the fleeting glimpse he cast toward her before redirecting his attention toward the window, his face marred by the deep crevices exaggerated in his irritation. "That is rather Slytherin of you, Ms. Granger. You have done many a thing to _achieve your ends_ in these past several days."

Hermione offered a nonchalant shrug. "I am simply honoring my duties as a dedicated Healer. I must do everything in my power to ensure you are healthy and safe, and I have done as much."

"Indeed, you have," Severus growled. He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes darting over Hermione's countenance. "I will concede to you this. I am not yet strong enough to care for myself, but as you have – _unfortunately _– accurately assessed, my funds are rapidly draining and I will not be able to afford to remain here."

"And you don't have your wand yet, either. While you are quite impressively skilled with wandless magic, I imagine you have displayed nearly the entirety of your abilities?" Hermione queried.

"Defensive spells are not as potent when wandless," Severus admitted, grimly. "Were I to get attacked—"

"You would need help," Hermione interjected.

"From a capable witch," Severus added quietly, tearing his gaze from her. His tongue darted out between his lips, moistening the chapped skin there; Hermione did not overlook the small detail and there was a fleeting craving deep within her, but she quickly suppressed it.

"I will go gather the papers we need and we'll transport you tonight," Hermione said. "Would you like to return to bed?"

"Yes."

After Hermione assisted Severus in the short walk to his bed, she quickly left him to tend to her other patients. It wasn't until she had finally finished preparing the proper documents that she actually realized precisely what was occurring – she had invited Severus Snape to stay in her home until he was well again. Severus Snape, former Potions Master, Head of Slytherin House, and Headmaster of Hogwarts – was going to be sleeping in _her _home. In _her _bed.

_Oh, God. What have I done?_

The realization overwhelmed her with a suffocating sense of panic and she was forced to rush to her office, locking the door behind her. Her lungs seemed unable to suck in enough air as she gasped for breath, a bead of sweat trickling down her cheek from her temple. His file lay closed atop her desk, and as she stared at it, the voice of her thoughts seemed to shout above her panicked breaths.

_This is right. _

Hermione rolled the crown of her head against the smooth surface of the door, her hands coming to clutch her chest as she gasped for air. How could she have been so foolish? How could she have invited that man to her home? She had already violated so many rules – how could she justify this most recent transgression? What if her superiors were to find out? What would she do?

_This is right._

The voice still seemed impossibly loud in her mind, as though her brain needed to shout to be heard over the chaos of anxious thought. Slowly, she willed her lungs to calm, her heart to slow. Breathing a steadying sigh, Hermione straightened her spine and crossed her office to her desk. Flicking open the cover of his file, she stared at the last page of the document where her tidy scrawl indicated his discharge request.

_Patient "John Smith" __6-5325-023-10 has requested premature discharge. Healer has thoroughly explained the risks associated with early discharge and indicated disapproval of his request. Patient has signed consent form and waived hospital liability. _

Closing the file once again, Hermione placed it among the pile that would be put away in the history department. Turning to face the crackling embers of her fireplace, she fisted a handful of her robe. It would be several hours longer before they could depart for her apartment, and in the meantime, she would steel herself for what was to come.

For what seemed hours after she left, Severus stared in silent contemplation at the wall across from him. A mug of steaming black coffee had materialized on his bedside table, and while he collected it into his hands, his lips never touched the brim. Instead, his spidery forefinger idly traced the warm porcelain lip, his thoughts a tangled web of worry, umbrage, and the strangest twine of joy. Slowly, the hot coffee cooled within the cup as the sky outside his window darkened with the setting sun.

As though disrupted suddenly from his reverie, he drew in a sharp breath, moved the cup to its place beside his shrinking stack of journals, and smoothed his rough hand against his rougher chin, the quiet hiss of stiff facial hair scraping across his flesh. The sky outside was a muted orange as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon; a similar shade danced among the flecks of emerald in Hermione's irises.

_Hermione…_

Somehow, she had managed to bewitch him – he could not explain it. A part of him wished not to and simply enjoy the power she held over him without even trying. Were he anyone but Severus _whatever-the-hell _Snape – a small smirk tugged the corner of his mouth – the issue of control would be none at all. But he was _indeed _Severus Snape, and he did not appreciate anyone else harnessing control of anything, let alone _him_. He had not beheld such a master for the better part of a decade, and he would not fall victim to such helotry again.

_She isn't trying to control you._

And yet, she had. He had resolved to leave her as soon as possible – there was not a doubt in his mind that it was his only option. The benefits of his leaving far outweighed the risks: Hermione would be safe; he could return to his task at hand; his funds would no longer drain faster than he could appraise them; his feelings for Hermione would fade when he was away from her. The only risk was that, without his wand, he was horribly vulnerable – but it would not take much to conjure a glamour charm (albeit a fairly weak one) to acquire a new wand from Ollivander.

With a slight scoff, Severus shook his head. Acquiring a wand from Ollivander would be impossible; the old man had a pristine memory, and were Severus to slip into the wand shop only to be chosen by an identical wand – it was far too risky. With a frown, Severus curled his hands around the blanket.

He would simply have to ensure an expedient convalescence. There was nothing more he could do than that.

That evening, when most of the staff had departed for their homes, Hermione prepared Severus for the quick trip to her office. She allowed him the freedom to ambulate with the assistance of a walker – which he was quick to protest, but she kept it on hand for when he quickly grew fatigued – while under the guise of a disillusionment charm.

When finally she secured the door behind them, the charm faded and Severus appeared before her, donning a pair of hospital slacks and the typical robe. He stared around the room with a slight sneer, his eyes lingering on the various paraphernalia she had collected from the Weasleys over the years. He spent a particularly long time examining the photograph of the Weasley family – including Harry – that Hermione had tipped over on her desk. With long, spidery fingers, he held the delicate frame close enough that his body language indicated some sort of significance for him, and Hermione allowed him the quiet moment to look over the man he had not seen in so many years – to stare into the emerald eyes that were the last thing he saw before he nearly died.

A quiet whisper of fabric – Hermione's robe brushing against itself as she shifted positions – withdrew him from his reverie and with a quiet cough, he set the photograph back on her desk and turned toward her.

"Your office is as I would have expected," he grumbled, nodding toward the hearth.

Tossing the powder into the crackling flames, Hermione said, "Apartment of Hermione Granger," and stepped through the green burst of flame. Severus was quick to follow.

When he appeared on the other side of the connection, he was forced to duck his head to avoid colliding with the brick of the hearth. His gait was unsteady as he emerged, his slippered feet sinking into the soft, carpeted floor of Hermione's living room. The Healer was immediately at his side, one hand steadying his walker and the other offering sturdy support beneath his arm. As he gathered his strength, he managed to lean most of his weight into his wiry arms, and Hermione stepped back from him. His eyes examined the quaint apartment, its organization mirroring that of her office; had he expertise in psychology, he would have assessed Hermione as having a slight obsession with order. He was hardly surprised to see the walls flanking the fireplace covered with leather-bound books of all sizes, the shelves of the bookcases buckling under their weight.

Hermione was holding his elbow carefully as he turned in a circle, searching the premises. When he finally noticed her presence there, he frowned and flicked his hand at her, shooing her away.

"I assure you, if I cannot manage to stand with this accursed walker beneath me, then I truly have no business standing at all."

With a small smile, Hermione nodded curtly and hurried into the kitchen. "Would you – er – like some tea?" Hermione called, peeking around the corner of the doorway. "Please, come in. I'm going to transfigure you some clothes – but for a moment, please just take a seat."

"Tea would be lovely," Severus replied quietly, sneering at her abysmally small kitchen. It was clear she did not do much cooking; the countertops were nearly sparkling they were so clean, the appliances that decorated the surface held neither crumb nor stain.

The kettle she removed from a cabinet, however, appeared to have seen heavy use. Where hands typically rested, the surface was burnished; even the spout seemed slightly worn. As Hermione busied herself with preparing the tea, Severus carefully lowered himself into a chair. His Healer, ever diligent, kept a single eye trained on him as he carefully sat down, ready to intervene if necessary. When it was apparent he was well enough on his own, she seemed to return her full attention to the task at hand.

"You will sleep in my bed," Hermione said casually. "While this is steeping, I am going to go change the linens and transfigure those clothes for you. I am also more than happy to adjust the bed to your liking, so you are able to achieve the best rest possible. If you like to cook, you are more than welcome to use what I have; if I don't have something, I'll gladly get it for you on my way home from work. In fact, if you would make a list for me, I'll gather whatever it is you need while you're here." When it looked as though he was going to interrupt, she quickly added, "Please. I insist. I don't do much cooking, and so the kitchen is rather barren."

In an instant, she was gone from the kitchen. Severus suspected she was preparing her bedroom for its new inhabitant and – while he was rather uncomfortable with the prospect of claiming a woman's bed from her – he was feeling strangely _affectionate _toward Hermione for the obvious effort she was expending to ensure his comfort.

She was truly doing this _for_ him. She had no ulterior motives.

_What a curious situation._

A few moments later she returned and finished preparing the tea. Handing him a warm mug, Hermione poured herself a cup as well and lowered into the chair across from him. Her eyes were searching his face, a small wrinkle pressed into her forehead.

"I don't want you to feel uncomfortable, Severus," Hermione said softly. "I know this is – _odd_ – but it is in your best interest and it is purely professional. It's like your showers – I am your Healer and nothing more."

With a frown, Severus glanced over his shoulder into the living room. The couch was already decorated with a pair of plain sheets, a pillow, and a blanket, and he knew it was where Hermione would be sleeping while he was imposing on her. The frown tugged the corners of his mouth further downward and he returned his attention to her.

"Are you certain?"

"There's no going back now, is there?" Hermione replied with a smile. "I insist, Severus. This is necessary for your health. You—" For a moment, she seemed to consider her words carefully before continuing. "You deserve this. You deserve someone doing something _for _you, while expecting nothing in return. And I will _never_ expect anything from you."

Staring into his cup, he watched as the dark liquid swirled about with tiny flecks swimming about. Bringing the mug to his lips, he sipped the steaming tea, savoring the taste before returning the cup to the table.

"Very well, Ms. Granger."

Later on, when Hermione was giving Severus the "grand tour" of her tiny apartment, Severus happened upon an additional door that appeared to lead to a second bedroom. With an inquisitive eyebrow, he turned the doorknob and pushed open the strangely heavy door. Instantly, the air of the hallway was effused with a pleasantly familiar combination of herbs and spices. As the door swung open, into view appeared a room that was transfigured to resemble a dungeon. _His _old dungeons.

"I didn't do this for you," Hermione was quick to say. "I—I work best in familiar situations. I like to practice my brewing abilities here, so I… I requested permission from my landlord to set up my own laboratory. It costs a little extra every month, but it's worth it. I would never forgive myself if I botched a potion and a patient suffered because of it."

"I see."

"You're free to use it, if you like. Of course, when you're brewing your own potions, I will insist that you use my laboratory. It isn't much, but… it's enough."

Severus closed the door and Hermione led him to her bedroom. Across the bed lay a set of black robes, nearly identical to what he used to wear while he was her professor.

"If you'd like something else, I can do quite a bit with these glamour charms," she offered with a faint blush. "I didn't know your preferences, so I – well, I went with what I knew."

"This is more than satisfactory, Ms. Granger," Severus replied, using one hand to support himself on the walker and the other to lift the robes. Hermione held the opposing side for him so he could examine her work. "I am afraid I am not quite capable of clothing myself," he said.

"That's what I'm here for. I also have a set of sleeping gowns for you, if that is your preference," she added quickly. "And I will help you with whatever you need."

Nodding slowly, Severus turned toward Hermione's dresser. A large vanity mirror stood atop it, providing Severus with the first glimpse of himself in quite some time. Ambling toward the dresser, he rested his hands against the cool surface and stared into the eyes of his reflection. Hermione appeared beside him quickly, her warm gaze following his as he traced the contours of his countenance, the prominent angles of his skeleton that danced about his body.

"You are looking much healthier today than when I was first assigned to your care," Hermione said softly. "You are not quite to where you were, obviously – but you are looking better every day."

Smoothing his rough hands over his sallow face, Severus scowled. He turned from the mirror, and with a violent thrust of his hand, the robes he had been holding flew toward the mirror, catching at the peak and dangling across the majority of its surface.

As though she understood, her hand came to his elbow and she tugged him toward the door. "The loo is this way," Hermione said softly, leading Severus out of the bedroom and toward the lavatory.

When they finished the tour, Hermione helped Severus into a sleeping gown. During the process of securing the garment over his body, Hermione rambled on about getting to a shoppe in Diagon Alley to pick up some articles for him.

"Of course, I will need your measurements – but it won't take long," she said casually, securing the buttons of the sleeping gown. "Also, your shoe size – I will get you an entire wardrobe so that you can rest comfortably while you are here."

"Ms. Granger," Severus growled, shooing her hands away from his navel and finishing the task of closing the gown. "That is hardly necessary. I have a wardrobe in my home – it is simply a matter of acquiring it."

"That won't be a problem at all, Severus," Hermione said softly, looking up at him, her hands folded in front of her. "I can Apparate there and gather your things."

Hesitantly, Severus considered her proposal. He was hardly comfortable with the premise of another individual entering his home, but was there any other option?

"For now, I would like to rest. We can discuss retrieving my things tomorrow. Surely you have time off?" Severus asked, moving toward the bed.

Hermione intervened, her hands hurriedly pulling back the covers of the bed. Assisting Severus to a seated position, she shook her head. "I will request early leave tomorrow, but I can't guarantee anything until this weekend. It's only Wednesday."

"Ah, yes," he replied gruffly, leaning back into the pillows. Arching his back, a satisfying _crack_! violated the silence of the room, and then he settled comfortably into the mattress.

"You are welcome to any of my books and also the telly, if you're interested. I have a stack of journals beneath the coffee table, as well," Hermione said, smoothing her hands over the blankets Severus pulled to his chest.

"I am certain I will find plenty to keep me occupied, Ms. Granger," Severus replied softly. "You need not worry about that."

Nodding, Hermione smiled. "Very well. Just one more thing, Severus."

Without finishing, she disappeared from the room. Severus, resting lazily against the pillows, listened curiously at the distant clatter of silverware; a moment later, Hermione returned, a glass in her hand filled with his usual prescription potions.

After he swallowed the solution down to the dregs, Hermione pulled the cup from his hands. "Good night, Severus. If you need anything—"

Waving his hand dismissively, Severus turned onto his side. With a quiet 'tut,' Hermione turned toward her dresser, drawing out a sleeping gown.

"Good night, Severus. I'll see you in the morning."

Severus had been unaware of how exhausted he truly was. The bed was charmed in such a way that it supported his aching bones perfectly; he couldn't help but feel as though he were floating on a cloud. Between the gentle cushion of the mattress below him and the nest of thick blankets he pulled around his face, sleep overcame him nearly instantly. For the first time in what seemed like years, his rest was not plagued with a dream of any sort, and he quite possibly slept like a baby.

The following morning, Severus woke slowly and with pleasure. He was cocooned in the soft fabric of blankets that covered his bed, and as consciousness slowly engulfed him, he shifted his bare legs against the smooth fabric. It was very different from the stiff cotton sheets of his hospital bed, and while the bed itself had not been _uncomfortable_, so to speak, it may as well have been a slab of rock in comparison to the bed he was curled within. Turning onto his back, he drank in the scent that billowed into the air with his movement: _Hermione_. Natural. Without her perfume. The smell of her sweat. Perhaps even her sex. He knew she changed the linens, but there was nothing she could do to totally eradicate the smell of her that seeped into her mattress.

_Her sex._ Even as a forty-some-year-old man, the thought of her naked form pressed into the mattress coiled knots in his groin. Hips grinding into her thighs, her breasts flushed, nipples swollen, her face freckled with droplets of sweat as she growled in primal pleasure—

_Stop._

With a great deal of force, Severus opened his eyes to cease the image of her naked body writhing beneath him. The damage had already been done, of course, and as he shifted his body to a sitting position, the stiffness in his groin protruded shamelessly from his body. He could hear the groan of pipes as water rushed through them, and the knowledge of her naked body in the shower did nothing for his erection except exacerbate it. She would need to come into her room to dress and he knew that moment was impending. Gingerly, he swung his long legs over the side of the bed, reached for the walker that rested nearby, and rocked himself to his feet. At least, with his shoulders hunched in such a way to support his body, his erection was no longer visible. With stiff, aching movements, it would soon disappear anyway, and he began to hobble toward the door.

As he emerged in the hallway the aroma of fresh coffee pervaded his nostrils and he breathed in. Glad to be rid of the lingering scent of the woman in the shower behind him, he slowly worked his way toward the kitchen, first finding the coffee, and then taking a seat at the table with his mug in one hand, and the morning's _Daily Prophet _in the other.

Fully engrossed in an article detailing a recent trial of a convicted Death Eater, Severus' gaze darted in alarm when Hermione's voice sounded from the living room.

"I'm going to get off early today, and I thought we could get you a new wand before collecting your things," Hermione said quickly as she tugged her bag over her shoulder. "Some glamour charms should disguise your identity. I don't think it's wise to go to Ollivander's, of course."

Of course, Hermione Granger would have given such forethought to the situation. With a slow nod, he invited her to continue.

"I've done a little research, and I found a wand shoppe in the States that we could visit. It's buried in New York City, of course, but the pub through which we enter the alley is attached to the Floo network. Amazingly enough, as I was unaware the Floo network was international, but that was perhaps foolish of me," Hermione added quickly.

"And how do we disguise this?" he motioned toward the walker.

"A glamour charm, of course," Hermione replied with a touch of mischief in her voice. "I intend to make it look as though you are not injured, but old." She rolled her shoulders in a shrug.

"Very well, Ms. Granger," Severus replied, turning his gaze back to the newspaper. "When shall I expect your return?"

"I'm going to try to be home by three," Hermione replied, pinching some Floo powder between her fingers. "Help yourself to the shower if you can – otherwise I will be more than happy to assist you when I return home. Please be careful. I've installed a handrail so you would have something to hold onto."

"You have my thanks, Ms. Granger," Severus growled softly, turning his gaze to her once more.

Perhaps awkwardly, she shifted her weight on her feet. With a small smile, she added softly, "Promise me something, Severus. After all that I have done for you – promise me that you will do your best to be comfortable while you're here? When I say, 'make yourself at home,' I am being sincere."

The warmth that settled into his chest just then threatened to suffocate Severus – but a feeling of panic was not what washed over him in that moment. Instead, there was a sense of calm that seeped into his pores. A genuine smile nearly parted his lips – not a sneer, nor the sarcastic smirk that he so often donned – but a genuine smile.

_Perhaps… _"You have my word, Ms. Granger," Severus replied quietly, his eyes fixed on hers. He could get lost in those pools of light, of love.

Tossing the fingerful of powder into the quiet flames, Hermione turned from him. "I'm holding you to that, Severus." And with that, she was gone.

The silence settled in around him and slowly, he brought the mug of coffee to his lips. His eyes fell to the newspaper in front of him and for the following hour, he read from the pages. When finally, he had scoured the news for all that intrigued him, he eased himself onto his feet and crossed the kitchen to the cabinetry. It took him several attempts to find the pantry, but as he pulled open the door he spied the boxes of packaged food.

Moments later, he was taking small mouthfuls of oatmeal, his eyes fixated on the window but unseeing. His mind was elsewhere, considering his current predicament, whether he would be able to shower independently – of course, he would attempt to, though he smoothed his hand over the fake Galleon that rested on the tabletop. If he could claim this small token of agency, he would be one step closer to recovery – and one step closer to disappearing once again.

"Harry!"

Harry turned quickly from his place by a set of certifications and degrees that decorated Hermione's wall. His glasses were askew upon his nose, which, upon seeing his friend, he seemed to realize; quickly his fingers came to his nose, straightening his spectacles before taking a step toward Hermione.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, throwing her arms around his neck and squeezing him tightly.

Harry's own strong arms snaked around her waist and pulled her close in an embrace, as though he had not seen her in years. His lips grazed the top of her head in an affectionate kiss before he released her, and he lowered himself into a chair positioned opposite hers before the desk that separated them.

"I heard about you and Ron," Harry replied softly. "How're you doing?"

Hermione set aside her bag, cracking open her office door in order to acquire the patient files that she expected to be held in the container attached to the wall. After gathering the few folders into her hands, she set them on the desk and sat down across from her oldest friend, a smile seemingly permanently plastered to her face.

"It's been a rather trying few days, Harry," Hermione said, honestly. Her brown eyes flitted between her desk and Harry's face, and finally offered a congenial smile. "But I think it's for the better."

"That's great, Hermione," Harry said, reaching across the desk to smooth his fingers over her hand in comfort. "I won't be around very long, but I wanted to check in on you."

A genuine smile parted Hermione's lips as she met her friend's gaze. Harry always seemed able to read her, even though she knew intellectually, he was no match for her. And yet, he was always able to comfort her; no matter where she hid, he could find her and read her emotions as though she were one of the books to which she so closely held.

As his emerald eyes pierced her, she felt the strongest compulsion to confess everything to him. She had only managed the strength to finally leave Ron because of the support of Severus; she had risked everything she had worked for to keep him safe; he was currently hidden away in her home; she had no grasp on her emotions toward him—

"Harry, can I ask you something?" Hermione began cautiously, pulling her gaze from his and staring at her nails.

"Of course, 'Mione," Harry replied, leaning back in his chair.

"If—Do you think it's possible that… Snape…" her voice trailed off quietly, as though it had lost its momentum.

"Survived?" Harry finished for her, combing his hand through his messy mop of black hair. "All the time. There was no burial. I'm not even certain a body was found. I—I still have nightmares about it, 'Mione." His voice was trembling, as though there were a catch in his throat. "I wonder all the time if there was even a body _to_ be found, or if Nagini—"

Hermione nodded solemnly, a shaking breath rattling her chest. She didn't need Harry to finish his thought, as it was something that had always plagued her, as well – until approximately two weeks ago, of course.

"Is that why you had Snape's file out?" Harry asked cautiously. "Has it been on your mind that much?"

Hermione drew her lip between her teeth. "Harry…"

The creak of hinges interrupted their quiet conversation, and as Hermione and Harry turned their attention toward the door, Marcus' weary face appeared. Hermione rose immediately from her desk, coming round to stand before her fellow Healer.

"What is it?"

"We've just got a sudden rush of admissions, Hermione. You're needed," and with that, he disappeared once more.

When Hermione turned to face Harry, he was already on his feet. The urgency in Marcus' voice was not lost on either of them, and quickly, Harry drew Hermione into a hug. A moment later, he disappeared through the crackling flames. Ensuring her wand was in its place, Hermione drew her fingers through her mass of curls, securing them into a tight knot at the back of her head; a moment later, she pulled open the door to her office, slipping through it.

As she emerged into the hallway, she was forced to press herself against the wall as a set of stretchers rolled past her. Even though it was a magical hospital, the Healers were forced by necessity to train at least basic Muggle first-aid in the case of some massive incident. If ever there were a factory explosion or natural disaster, every hospital in the area had to be prepared to intake any number of patients; through negotiations with the Muggle government, St. Mungo's agreed to train its staff to heal through Muggle means when absolutely necessary. It was, of course, convenient that many individuals were unfamiliar with medicine, and so many procedures could be done covertly – and the healing potions so often prescribed were explained as a result of an overwhelmed pharmacy.

Hermione caught sight of some very gruesome injuries as the patients were rushed into rooms. One young man – barely of legal age, Hermione guessed – was bleeding profusely from a stump that used to be his right arm. His skin was pale and glossy, coated with a thin sheen of sweat. Hermione doubted he would survive, but she would do her damnedest to provide him the best opportunity she could.

Three o'clock came and went with considerable haste as Severus reclined against Hermione's couch, a novel pried open between his fingers. A radio growled quietly in the background, tuned to some modern music channel that Severus had dialed absently. At four-thirty, Severus set down the novel and turned on the television; on some Muggle news network, an obnoxious alarm seemed to echo through the apartment as it broadcasted "breaking news." Accordingly, at ten o'clock that morning (_Hardly "breaking,"_ Severus thought), a factory north of St. Mungo's erupted in an explosion, the source of which was still undiscovered. The injured were rushed to several nearby hospitals, including St. Mungo's – no doubt, Hermione was overrun with patients. The casualty count had not yet been disclosed, but the news anchor – a blond man with a square jaw – estimated at least ten deaths, thirty wounded, and many, many more left unaccounted for.

It wasn't until seven o'clock that evening that Hermione finally stepped through her hearth in a roar of green fire, her hair knotted back haphazardly and her lime green robes discolored with blood stains and other unidentifiable fluids. A metallic scent effused the air, undeniably the stench of blood, and as he caught sight of her weary state, he rose slowly to his feet with the assistance of his walker.

"Severus, I am so sorry," Hermione gasped, her voice winded in exasperation. "I—"

"I heard what happened," Severus interrupted calmly. "You need not apologize for doing your job."

"Severus, the Muggles don't know what's going on," Hermione said quietly. "But _we_ do. That wasn't an ordinary factory explosion – or whatever other nonsense line they're tossing about. That was a deliberate attack."

Severus was still very weak, but he shuffled toward her as quickly as he could manage. Hermione had barely stepped beyond the hearth, her chest rising with anxious breaths. She was frantic, pale; the scent that permeated her robes grew stronger the longer she lingered. When finally he reached her, his dark eyes surveying her face, he registered her panic with a grim sense of dismay.

"Death Eaters?" he reached for her, one hand grabbing firmly to her shoulder.

Nodding curtly, Hermione brought her hands to her face, smoothing her palms over her eyes. "Severus, they've—they've not attacked London in some time. It's been—years."

Perhaps too quickly, Severus turned from her. The momentum caused him to lose his balance and he had to grip firmly to his walker, but Hermione's hands had also stabilized him by his waist. He allowed her touch to linger for a moment while he gathered his confidence in his gait, and then he shook her off, moving toward the couch. The novel he had been reading earlier lay face-down on the coffee table. He was pacing now, his shoulders hunched above his walker and the length of his transfigured robes fettering in the movement. He knew his gait lacked any intimidating stalk, the fabric hanging from his bones limply swaying as opposed to the daunting billowing. His movements were still frail, nearly timid; Hermione could tell from his tenseness that his weakness was driving him mad.

"I am aware," he hissed. After a moment, he lowered himself into the couch.

Hermione watched him for a moment longer before breathing slowly through her pursed lips. "I need to shower, but I would like to acquire your things from your house before we lose all daylight." She didn't linger any longer, disappearing down the hallway and leaving Severus to his own thoughts. He hadn't noticed her pause in the hallway. "There is no sense in allowing this to control your life – our lives."

With a scowl, Severus nodded his hesitant agreement. She finally padded across the soft carpet of the hallway, and as the quiet click of the bathroom door guaranteed his solitude, Severus began to pace delicately, his weight supported mostly by the blasted contraption below him.

Of course, they would begin attacking London – there was no deterrent from such activity, was there? Who was to stop them? Severus knew the Ministry employed Aurors for such missions, but there were only so many of them; from his time as a member of Voldemort's followers, he knew one frequent tactic was to lay waste to several areas at once, in order to weaken the opposition through dwindling their numbers. He had not been able to access his library of information regarding their movements – all of that data was in his home. The scowl harshened the lines of his face, and with a frustrated growl he finally lowered himself into a chair at the kitchen table.

He would need to acquire much more from his home than he had at first considered. There was nothing more to it than that; he had been able to predict many of their movements in the past, warning the appropriate agencies and potentially saving, at the very least, hundreds of lives.

It wasn't much later that Hermione finally emerged from her bedroom, dressed in Muggle clothing. His gaze traced the subtle curve of her body, the shape of her legs – slender legs always hidden by the hideous robes that was her uniform. With a smile, she placed a hand on his forearm as it rested across the tabletop.

"Are you ready?" she asked, her wand wrapped within the fabric of a small purse.

"Indeed," he growled, rising shakily to his feet.

Smoothing her soft hand over his forearm, her fingers entwined with his, her amber eyes carefully meeting his gaze. She chewed her lip pensively for a moment before clutching closer to him, her bag held to her chest.

"We are looking to travel to Spinner's End. Have you ever been to Cokeworth?" Severus queried.

"Yes," Hermione replied softly. "One of my uncles lives there. When I was a child, I would play at a playground near his house…"

As her voice trailed off, Severus cocked an eyebrow. Her voice was suddenly weighted as though there existed sorrow in her memories, though he doubted her sorrow reflected his when recalling the playground he suspected she spoke of. If he were correct, she played at the very playground he had so many years ago…

"My cousin Emily – she died when she was thirteen, during my third year at Hogwarts. An awful automobile accident."

And with that, they disappeared with a sudden _pop!_

When they emerged, Severus fell to his knees, lurching what pitiful amount of contents he had consumed that day onto the cobblestone street below him. Hermione was immediately beside him, her hand smoothing over his back as her other rummaged through her purse. As he glanced toward her, he noted that her arm had vanished into the bag to her elbow, though the size of the purse suggested impossibility. With a tiny smirk, a fleeting smirk that vanished as soon as his gut heaved bile into his mouth, he recognized the article – as well as the charm that enhanced it.

"You are—going to assume—I am—mental," he hissed between choked gasps for air.

As Hermione withdrew a small vial, she turned her head to the side in curiosity. Removing the cork, she lifted the potion to his lips, and as he swallowed, the feelings of nausea nearly immediately subsided.

"Why is that, Severus?" Hermione asked, her hand still smoothing over the sharp ridge of his spine.

After a moment of silence where Severus slowed his breathing, he leaned back onto his heels, his hands reaching for the walker. Hermione rose to her feet and steadied herself behind him, preparing to aid him to his feet.

"That bag – you are truly clever, Ms. Granger," Severus replied before working himself to a standing position. "Especially at the age of seventeen, which is when I would approximate your enchantment of it."

A small smile crossed her lips and she rounded to face him. "How did you—"

"You had it with you that awful morning," he growled. "I remember it because it looks very similar to a purse I gave to Lily for Christmas one year."

Hermione let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "You were right, Severus. I _do_ think you're mental. Come on."

With that, she tapped him with her wand, the disillusionment charm taking effect as he vanished from sight. She cast the very same spell on herself, ensuring their safe passage through the small village.


End file.
